So the hand of the child, automatic, Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay. I could see nothing behind that child’s eye. I have seen eyes in the street Trying to peer through lighted shutters, And a crab one afternoon in a pool, An old crab with barnacles on his back, Gripped the end of a stick which I held him.
Eran las tres y media,
- La lámpara chisporroteó,
- La lámpara murmuró en la oscuridad.
La lámpara zumbó:
“Regard the moon, La lune ne garde aucune rancune, She winks a feeble eye, She smiles into corners. She smooths the hair of the grass. The moon has lost her memory. A washed-out smallpox cracks her face, Her hand twists a paper rose, That smells of dust and old Cologne, She is alone With all the old nocturnal smells That cross and cross across her brain. The reminiscence comes Of sunless dry geraniums And dust in crevices, Smells of chestnuts in the streets And female smells in shuttered rooms And cigarettes in corridors And cocktail smells in bars.”
La lámpara dijo: «Son las cuatro, he aquí el número en la puerta.
¡Memoria! Tú tienes la llave,
La pequeña lámpara extiende un círculo en la escalera, Sube.
La cama está abierta; el cepillo de dientes cuelga de la pared,
Pon tus zapatos en la puerta, duerme, prepárate para la vida».
La última vuelta de tuerca.