Marina

Thomas Stearns Eliot (Gran Bretaña, 1888-1965)

Quis hic locus, quae regio,
quae mundi plaga?

What seas what shores what
grey rocks and what islands
What water lapping the bow
And scent of pine and the wood
thrush singing through
the fog
What images return
O my daughter.

Those who sharpen the
tooth of the dog, meaning
Death
Those who glitter with the
glory of the humming-bird,
meaning
Death
Those who sit in the sty of
contentment, meaning
Death
Those who suffer the
ecstasy of the animals,
meaningDeath

Are become insubstantial,
reduced by a wind,
A breath of pine, and the
wood song fog
By this grace dissolved in
place
What is this face, less
clear and clearer
The pulse in the arm, less
strong and stronger
-Given or lent? more distant
than stars and nearer than
the eye
Whispers and small
laughter between leaves and
hurrying feet
Under sleep, where all the
waters meet.

Bowsprit cracked with ice
and paint cracked with heat.
I made this, I have forgotten
And remember.
The rigging weak and the
canvas rotten
Between one June and
another September.
Made this unknowing, half
conscious, unknown, my
own.
The garboard strake leaks,
the seams need caulking.
This form, this face, this life
Living to live in a world of
time beyond me;
let meResign my life for this life,
my speech for that
unspoken,
The awakened, lips parted,
the hope, the new ships.

What seas what shores
what granite islands towards
my timbers
And woodthrush calling
through the fog
My daughter.