There is no Narcissus to speak of
When you’re 52 the mirror is the other.
There’s no Narcissus to speak of, no passion
in seeing oneself in the other. The water
in the pond is pitiless, finally hard
as a bad snapshot, it tears to pieces
and the mirror turns liquid: it goes back to fluidity
and that liquefied glass eye that once wept;
is, at last, a pond of endless green water:
a pond from which flows, surrounded by her hair
and beneath the water lilies: a nymph, a nymph…
— translated from the Spanish by Mary Crow