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That Which Remains

Today, I should have been posting something humorous. Probably about Dancing with the Stars. And it would have very likely been accompanied by a small survey that would have kept everyone entertained for a while.

But today I am not in the mood for writing funny stuff.

Today, we laid a young man down to rest. He was stabbed to death last week. I will not go into the details. You can find them here

I have been at many funerals, but none like this. Andy was in his early twenties, a good kid, hardworking, had a great attitude and, until last week, a brilliant future. I did not know the other two young men that were murdered along with him. But I do know that they were someone's children. And I also know that no parent should go through something like this.

Good bye Andres. May your journey be good, and may your harvest plenty.

You sure did touch a lot of lives.

This one's for you.

(My translation below each verse, in italics)

~ Para entonces ~
~ For Then ~

Quiero morir cuando decline el día,
en alta mar y con la cara al cielo;
donde parezca un sueño la agonía,
y el alma, un ave que remonta el vuelo.

I want to die when the day ends,
in the deep sea and facing the sky;
where agony resembles a dream,
and the soul a bird taking flight


No escuchar en los últimos instantes
ya con el cielo y con el mar a solas,
más voces ni plegarias sollozantes
que el majestuoso tumbo de las olas.

Not to listen in those last moments
alone with the sky and the sea,
to any other voices or sobbing prayers
than the majestic rumble of the waves.


Morir cuando la luz triste retira
sus áureas redes de la onda verde,
y ser como ese sol que lento expira:
algo muy luminoso que se pierde ...

To die when the sad light takes away
its golden nets from the green wave,
and be like that sun that slowly perishes:
something very luminous that gets lost . . .


Morir, y joven: antes que destruya
el tiempo aleve la gentil corona;
cuando la vida dice aún: soy tuya,
aunque sepamos bien que nos traiciona.

To die, and young: before treacherous time
destroys the gentle crown;
when life still tells you: I am yours,
though we know very well that she betrays us.


(Manuel Gutiérrez Nájera. México. 1859)

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