OW FAR FROM LOVE ARE THOSE LOVES!

How sad a springtime without flowers!

So are those loves, devoid of love,
body to body, with troubled heart,
never reaching the deepest emotion,
where pleasures and sorrows are torn apart.

How far from love are those loves!

It is to make love amid the gasps
of death, with the soul absent and cold,
mere matter trapped in vulgar monotony,
reflected in eyes lifeless and old.

How sad a springtime without flowers!

They deprive such pleasure of the finest
joys a human soul may ever know:
the magical, profound enchantment
of love, in splendor’s radiant glow.

How far from love are those loves!

They imagine themselves all-consuming,
those frosts transformed into routine;
they mistake for an unquenchable fire
mere ashes of pride and bitterness unseen.

How sad a springtime without flowers!

Tiny sparks are the passions born
of habit, of need, of empty display,
or demands of a society
that has lost its highest values away.

How far from love are those loves!

How far from love! Those kinds of loves
are but lodging for a wandering guest,
like a grieving soul forever drifting.
They are the ruin of lustful unrest!

How sad a springtime without flowers! 

Emma-Margarita R. A.-Valdés

Traductora: Vekas Rodica

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