On Self-Knowledge

The river here forgets his humble source
and challenges with waves the hill that stands,
armored with roots of oak, before his course,
then, deftly turning, undercuts the land.

Foam-proud, but with no other dignity,
he passes on as if it were a game
by swerves and steps down rocks to the wide sea,
where he dissipates and drowns his name.

So we, who build our houses on the hill,
forget our ocean and artesian seep
until his flood comes rumbling from the deep;

then we, guests chattering behind us unmarked,
stand looking down on rapids in the dark,
reminded that the night is waiting still.

—1–5 July 1994

I'd forgotten about this -- another Spanish translation, this of a sonnet by Pedro Espinosa (1578-1650). The rendering of the sestet is *cough* a little free. Original text( is, again, behind a courtesy cut. )

---L.