Sometimes I wonder if my prose or poetry
were written in my native language,
Would it mean the same,
would the words still play the same strings
Upon the harp that resides in the heart?
Would the ears that hear the rhythms of my words
as I play them in the stanzas of a song,
could they sing along?
If I say, ‘mi Corazon, tus ojos brillan
como cuando miro a las estrellas
En el cielo de la noche‘, would you know
That I speak of how your eyes are as bright
As the stars at night?
If my soul could speak in the language of my Mother’s Mother
And recall the mountains that would sentry our little town,
Where as ‘tots’ we would chase the roosters and chickens
Barefooted in the dirt street as they would stand laughing
And clapping when we would fall tackling and only
Grasping the feathers of their wings.
The gaiety of their smiles and the tears
From their laughter still resound in the fondness
Of my memories, while my Mother shouts “ oye Nene,
cuidado, carga la! Necesito huevos”.
The heart strings of my memory in these words
cannot be played in translation but the tune of the song
Can certainly be heard in the melody that my eyes sing
Through the tears of joy as they rhythmically flow down,
Down my aged cheeks on my face.
“El mar tiene las perlas,
El cielo tiene las estrellas,
Pero, mi Corazon, mi Corazon,
Mi Corazon tiene amor!”
“The sea has its perils,
The Heavens its stars,
But my heart, my heart,
My heart has Love!”
by H. Heine