I was waiting for a meeting in the library and happened across this poem, which I couldn’t resist doing a quick translation of.
Rita
by Luis Alberto de Cuenca
Rita, what are you going to do on Sunday? Are there Sundays
where you live? Are there social engagements? Do people arrive late?
I don’t know why I overwhelm you with useless questions,
why I keep thinking you can answer me.
I know that you’d like to have a voice and words
instead of silence, and escape from the grave
to tell me things about the land of the dead.
But you can’t, Rita, and I shouldn’t dream of you
on a night in August as lively as tonight.
One must keep up appearances. After all, Sundays
are the worst days to leave the house.
