.
Buenos Aires a los veintiséis días de julio del 2024
Los lugares a los que fuiste te la han devuelto.
Los pasillos y jardines vacíos del orfanato te la han devuelto.
El puesto de los canillitas te la ha devuelto.
Las calles de Nueva York te la han devuelto y también algunas calles de Montreal.
Las habitaciones de Belém donde los lagartos atrapaban mosquitos te la han devuelto.
Las calles oscuras de Manaos y las calles húmedas de Río te la han devuelto.
La ciudad de México de donde te querías ir te la ha devuelto.
Y Halifax cuya bahía se lavó las manos de ti te la ha devuelto.
Tienes tu sombra.
Mientras viajabas la secuela blanca de tu partida hizo que tu sombra descendiera pero cuando llegaste ella te recibió. Tenías tu sombra.
Las puertas que atravesaste te quitaron tu sombra y al regresar, te la devolvieron. Tenías tu sombra.
Incluso si olvidabas tu sombra, volvías a encontrarla; siempre estuvo contigo.
Una vez en el campo la sombra de un árbol cubrió tu sombra y fuiste un desconocido.
Una vez en el campo pensaste que tu sombra había sido ensombrecida por alguien más. Tu sombra calló.
Tus ropas atrajeron tu sombra; cuando te las quitaste se extendió como la oscuridad de tu pasado.
Y tus palabras que flotan como hojas en el aire que se pierde, en un lugar que nadie conoce, te devolvieron la sombra.
Tus amigos te devolvieron tu sombra.
Tus enemigos te devolvieron tu sombra. Dijeron que era pesada y que taparía tu tumba.
Al morirte tu sombra durmió en la puerta del horno y comió cenizas en lugar de pan.
Se regocijó entre las ruinas.
Te observó mientras los demás dormían.
Brilló como cristal entre las tumbas.
Se tranquilizó como el aire.
Quería ser nieve en el agua.
Quería ser nada, pero eso era imposible.
Vino a mi casa.
Se sentó en mis hombros.
Tu sombra es tuya. Se lo dije. Dije que era tuya.
La he cargado demasiado tiempo. Te la devuelvo.
You have your shadow.
The places where you were have given it back.
The hallways and bare lawns of the orphanage have given it back.
The Newsboys Home has given it back.
The streets of New York have given it back and so have the streets of
Montreal.
The rooms in Belém where lizards would snap at mosquitos have
given it back.
The dark streets of Manaus and the damp streets of Rio have given it
back.
Mexico City where you wanted to leave it has given it back.
And Halifax where the harbor would wash its hands of you has given
it back.
You have your shadow.
When you traveled the white wake of your going sent your shadow
below, but when you arrived it was there to greet you. You had
The places where you were have given it back.
The hallways and bare lawns of the orphanage have given it back.
The Newsboys Home has given it back.
The streets of New York have given it back and so have the streets of
Montreal.
The rooms in Belém where lizards would snap at mosquitos have
given it back.
The dark streets of Manaus and the damp streets of Rio have given it
back.
Mexico City where you wanted to leave it has given it back.
And Halifax where the harbor would wash its hands of you has given
it back.
You have your shadow.
When you traveled the white wake of your going sent your shadow
below, but when you arrived it was there to greet you. You had
your shadow.
The doorways you entered lifted your shadow from you and when you
went out, gave it back. You had your shadow.
Even when you forgot your shadow, you found it again; it had been
with you.
Once in the country the shade of a tree covered your shadow and you
were not known.
Once in the country you thought your shadow had been cast by somebody
else. Your shadow said nothing.
Your clothes carried your shadow inside; when you took them off, it
spread like the dark of your past.
And your words that float like leaves in an air that is lost, in a place
no one knows, gave you back your shadow.
Your friends gave you back your shadow.
Your enemies gave you back your shadow. They said it was heavy and
would cover your grave.
When you died your shadow slept at the mouth of the furnace and ate
ashes for bread.
It rejoiced among ruins.
It watched while others slept.
It shone like crystal among the tombs.
It composed itself like air.
It wanted to be like snow on water.
It wanted to be nothing, but that was not possible.
It came to my house.
It sat on my shoulders.
Your shadow is yours. I told it so. I said it was yours.
I have carried it with me too long. I give it back.
The doorways you entered lifted your shadow from you and when you
went out, gave it back. You had your shadow.
Even when you forgot your shadow, you found it again; it had been
with you.
Once in the country the shade of a tree covered your shadow and you
were not known.
Once in the country you thought your shadow had been cast by somebody
else. Your shadow said nothing.
Your clothes carried your shadow inside; when you took them off, it
spread like the dark of your past.
And your words that float like leaves in an air that is lost, in a place
no one knows, gave you back your shadow.
Your friends gave you back your shadow.
Your enemies gave you back your shadow. They said it was heavy and
would cover your grave.
When you died your shadow slept at the mouth of the furnace and ate
ashes for bread.
It rejoiced among ruins.
It watched while others slept.
It shone like crystal among the tombs.
It composed itself like air.
It wanted to be like snow on water.
It wanted to be nothing, but that was not possible.
It came to my house.
It sat on my shoulders.
Your shadow is yours. I told it so. I said it was yours.
I have carried it with me too long. I give it back.
Mark Strand
. Mark Strand . Summerside. Cánada . 1934 . Nueva York . EEUU. 2014
Versión . Silvia Camerotto... Imagen . Katia Berestova
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