Ésta no es ella by Joaquín Pasos

This is not her*

This is not her, it is the wind,

it is the air that calls her;

it is her place, it is her hollow

emptiness that claims for her.

It is just the air that waits,

it is the breeze that waits for her,

but it’s not her, it’s not her,

it’s not her the one that talks to me;

it is a light in mirrors,

it is an occupied shadow,

it is the car of her body.

It is just the car that goes by!

It is just the tree, the leaf

that covers her and accompany her,

it is just her gesture that sinks

fingers of dreams in the nothingness.

It is the arm which opens,

it is the hand that calls me

but it’s not her, it’s not her,

although that’s her face.

That is the face of the wind

that is the mouth of the air,

that flock of kisses

flies scattered and without wings.

Why do I want that hole

that would serve her as a pillow,

if when filling it offers the chest

just a ghost sigh,

Why this living absence

that grows inside the soul?

Why the air, this air

with a face that disguises?

There, where it was your body

just a memory is planted:

and there where there were voices,

corpses of words…

There is a church’s tower,

that has lost its bells,

there is a font in the mount,

that it has run out of water;

near to a rose without roses

a day without a morning is born,

and in this hollow of the wind

where she was delivered,

just a blank nude

in the shape of a girl.

*English translation by Marjha Paulino

Ésta no es ella

Ésta no es ella, es el viento,

es el aire que la llama;

es su lugar, es su hueco,

vacío que la reclama.

Es solo el aire que espera,

es la brisa que la aguarda,

pero no es ella, no es ella,

no es ella la que me habla;

es una luz en espejos,

es una sombra ocupada,

es el coche de su cuerpo.

¡Sólo es el coche que pasa!

sólo es el árbol, la hoja

que la cubre y la acompaña

es sólo su gesto que hunde

dedos de sueño en la nada.

Es el brazo que se abre,

es la mano que me llama

pero no es ella, no es ella

aunque esa sea su cara.

Esa es la cara del aire,

esa bandada de besos,

vuela dispersa y sin alas.

Para qué quiero ese hueco

que le sirviera de almohada,

si a llenarlo ofrece el pecho

sólo un suspiro fantasma,

¿Para qué esta ausencia viva

que crece dentro del alma?

¿Para qué el aire, este aire

que con cara se disfraza?

Allí donde estaba un cuerpo

sólo un recuerdo se planta:

y allí donde había voces,

cadáveres de palabras…

Hay una torre de iglesia

que ha perdido sus campanas,

hay una fuente en el monte

que se ha quedado sin agua;

cerca de un rosal sin rosas

nace un día sin mañana,

y en este hueco del viento

donde estuviera entregada,

sólo un vacío desnudo

en forma de una muchacha.

Image: Luis Scafati


Joaquín Pasos (1914-1947) was a Nicaraguan poet, narrator and essayist . He was one of the most important authors of the national Vanguardian literary movement. His best known poem was his Canto de Guerra de las Cosas.