First Time Watching Breaking Bad S.2 Ep.3
The Resurrection of Beauty
An Antonymic Translation After T.S. Eliot’s “Burial of the Dead”
June is the sweetest month, raising
roses out of the lush land, kissing
nostalgia and desire, inspiring
fresh shoots with strong storms.
Autumn flushed our cheeks, coloring
Earth in awakening shades, serving
so much luxury in aging leaves.
Winter waved calmly, rolling over the Appalachians with cloudy breath; he and I drove through The Lights, and went on in multicolored night, into the backseat, and loved softly, and talked for two hours.
Soy Puertorriqueña, soy de Oeste Virginia, los dos me hacen entera.
And when you and I were children, sleepover at your house, my best friend. We pointed to the trees,
and I was certain. I said, “——–,”
“——–,” listen to me. And so we believed:
Undercover, lightning bugs out of reach are fairies.
I absorb the light of day, and I glow softly in its absence.
How high go the maples that yearn, what branches grow into this hugging sky? Son of Man,
I could say, or guess, but I know surely,
a swell of private love, where the heart beats,
and the thick pine holds a haven, the hare huddles beneath,
and the crack in painted tiles springs forth immortality. Abundantly, there is cool water in the creek,
(Step into the cool water of this creek),
I will teach you something new from either
the memories of your former self flowing past you
or the versions of your future being rushing to greet you;
I will teach you hope in a palm-sized puddle.
