The games of the water

(BY) DULCE MARÍA LOYNAZ

The games of water glow in moonlight as long diamond necklaces. The games of water laugh in the shade and they twine and cross and twinkle drawing radiant doodle stars.

The water must be squeezed for it to rises fine and high… A trembling foams undoes it in the air; unites it again… it descends then, opening itself in slow fans of feathers…

But it won’t go too far… This is a somnambulist water which dances and walks on a dream’s edge, weary of horizons in flight, landscapes that don’t exist… Blown by a small tap.

Water of seven veils undressing you and never naked! When will you have a gush to break the marble brooch that girdles you, and at last for an instant reaches to pierce like sword the Night!

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Dulce María Loynaz is a Cuban poet and novelist (Havana, 1902–1997). In the 1930s, her house in Havana began to become the center of the city’s cultural life, hosting various intellectuals and artists, such as Federico García Lorca, Juan Ramón Jiménez, Gabriela Mistral or Alejo Carpentier. In 1951 she was elected a member of the National Academy of Arts and Letters of Cuba, and was named Adoptive Daughter by the Puerto de la Cruz City Council (Canary Islands). She entered the Cuban Academy of Language in 1959 and, nine years later, the Royal Spanish Academy. In 1992 Dulce María Loynaz received the Cervantes Prize.

This is the original poem, which gives title to a book of poetry published in 1947 in Spain:

JUEGOS DE AGUA

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Los juegos de agua brillan a la luz de la luna como si fueran largos collares de diamantes: Los juegos de agua ríen en la sombra… Y se enlazan, y cruzan y cintilan dibujando radiantes garabatos de estrellas…

Hay que apretar el agua para que suba fina y alta… Un temblor de espumas la deshace en el aire; la vuelve a unir… desciende luego, abriéndose en lentos abanicos de plumas…

Pero no irá muy lejos… Esta es agua sonámbula Que baila y que camina por el filo de un sueño, transida de horizontes en fuga, de paisajes que no existen… Soplada por un grifo pequeño.

¡Agua de siete velos desnudándote y nunca desnuda! ¡Cuándo un chorro tendrás que rompa el broche de mármol que te ciñe, y al fin por un instante alcance a traspasar como espada, la Noche!