Some poppies, taken over on the East coast near Crail yesterday.
Hay que volar en este tiempo, a dónde?
Sin alas, sin avión, volar sin duda:
ya los pasos pasaron sin remedio,
no elevaron los pies del pasajero.
Hay que volar a cada instante como
las águilas, las moscas y los días,
hay que vencer los ojos de Saturno
y establecer allí nuevas campanas.
Ya no bastan zapatos ni caminos,
ya no sirve la tierra a los errantes,
ya cruzaron la noche las raíces,
y tú aparecerás en otra estrella
determinadamente transitoria
convertida por fin en amapola.
These days, one must fly — but where to?
without wings, without an airplane, fly — without a doubt:
the footsteps have passed on, to no avail;
they didn’t move the feet of the traveler along.
At every instant, one must fly — like
eagles, like houseflies, like days:
must conquer the rings of Saturn
and build new carillons there.
Shoes and pathways are no longer enough,
the earth is no use anymore to the wanderer:
the roots have already crossed through the night,
and you will appear on another planet,
stubbornly transient,
transformed in the end into poppies.
