Love and Illusion

Salomón López Fonseca

1877

Dedicated to my friend Ignacio Móntes de Oca.

Why, if summer strips the garden
Of flowers and verdant foliage,
Does Spring so generously restore
Lush greenery, soft flowers,
And brilliant color;
And to those who’ve been betrayed,
Putting an end to trust and candor,
Though shedding a river of cruel tears,
Devoid of flowers or rich attire,
Does love not return?
Why, if night spreads its wings,
Clothing Creation’s beauty in mourning,
Does the sun set the sky afire
And the Earth ignite once more
With fresh emotion;
And for him who’s lost his heart’s delight,
That innocent peace of happier times,
With no light to warm him, no voice to inspire,
Does not sweet illusion return as before,
Festive and smiling?
Could man be the only plant
That shrivels up in summer’s heat,
No more revived by April winds,
But broken by time’s onslaught,
Robbing him of vigor?
Is the breast the sole abode,
Enfolded in night’s horror,
That finds no star whose golden glow
Turns dark to a radiant dawn
Of rosy splendor?
Oh, no! For if we feel our soul is wounded
By horrible doubts—oh cruel deceit—
Let us humbly bear the martyr’s palm,
And seek the soothing calm
That comes with prayer.
If everything speaks to us of pain,
If nothing binds us to worldly strife,
Let us kneel before God, the fount
That quenches the thirst of those who yearn
For love and illusion.

Carora, August 1, 1877

Translated by
Michele McKay
Aynesworth
.

Credits

Salomon López Fonseca, “Amor é Ilusion,” El Semanario : repertorio de literatura, artes, ciencias é industrias Año 1, número 11 (December 15, 1877): 171–172, https://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=ien.35556028181246&seq=179.

Published in: The Posen Library of Jewish Culture and Civilization, vol. 6.

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