Sonnet IV
This light of Seville.. it is the palace
where I was born, with its sound of fountains.
My father, in his study. His high forehead,
his short beard, and the limp mustache.
My father, though young. He is reading, writing,
leafing through his books and thinking. He rises;
he goes toward the door to the garden. He goes through.
Sometimes he talks to himself, sometimes he sings.
His big eyes anxiously looking
now seem to wander, without a place
to rest, in the emptiness.
Now they escape from his yesterday to his tomorrow;
now they are looking through time, my father!
kindly at my gray head.
--Antonio Machado (1875-1939)
Esta luz de Sevilla... Es el palacio
donde nací, con su rumor de fuente.
Mi padre, en su despacho. La alta frente,
la breve mosca, y el bigote lacio.
Mi padre, aún joven. Lee, escribe, hojea
sus libros y medita. Se levanta;
va hacia la puerta del jardín. Pasea.
a veces habla solo, a veces canta.
Sus grandes ojos de mirar inquieto
ahora vagar parecen, sin objeto
donde puedan posar, en el vacío.
Ya escapan de su ayer a su mañana;
ya miran en el tiempo, ¡padre mío!,
piadosamente mi cabeza cana.
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