 |
| Rosa 'A Shropshire Lad' - 9 November 2025 |
In today’s grey Sunday I
went to my back lane garden and I was rewarded by my Rosa 'A Shropshire Lad’ being in bloom. I was almost sad to cut it so
I could scan it because it had two buds. But with the weather as it is those
two buds might have potential energy to open but they will not. I knew of a
Borges Poem in which he used the title in English (something he often did)
called the The Constant Rose.
Below the poem in both Spanish and English.
The Constant Rose - Jorge Luís Borges
A los quinientos años de la Hégira
Persia miró desde sus alminares
la invasión de las lanzas del desierto
y Attar de Nishapur miró una rosa
y le dijo con tácita palabra
como el que piensa, no como el que reza:
-Tu vaga esfera está en mi mano. El tiempo
nos encorva a los dos y nos ignora
en esta tarde de un jardín perdido.
Tu leve peso es húmedo en el aire.
La incesante pleamar de tu fragancia
sube a mi vieja cara que declina
pero te sé más lejos que aquel niño
que te entrevió en las láminas de un sueño
o aquí en este jardín, una mañana.
La blancura del sol puede ser tuya
o el oro de la luna o la bermeja
firmeza de la espada en la victoria.
Soy ciego y nada sé, pero preveo
que son más los caminos. Cada cosa
es infinitas cosas. Eres música,
firmamentos, palacios, ríos, ángeles,
rosa profunda, ilimitada, íntima,
que el Señor mostrará a mis ojos muertos
En La rosa profunda, 1975
The Unending Rose
Five hundred years in the wake of the Hegira,
Persia looked down from its minarets
on the invasion of the desert lances,
and Attar of Nishapur gazed on a rose,
addressing it in words that had no sound,
as one who thinks rather than one who prays:
"Your fragile globe is in my hand; and time
is bending both of us, both unaware,
this afternoon, in a forgotten garden.
Your brittle shape is humid in the air.
The steady, tidal fullness of your fragrance
rises up to my old, declining face.
But I know you far longer than that child
who glimpsed you in the layers of a dream
or here, in this garden, once upon a morning.
The whiteness of the sun may well by yours
or the moon's gold, or else the crimson stain
on the hard sword-edge in the victory.
I am blind and I know nothing, but I see
there are more ways to go; and everything
is an infinity of things. You, you are music,
rivers, firmaments, palaces, and angels,
O endless rose, intimate, without limit,
which the Lord will finally show to my dead eyes."
Spanish; trans. Alastair Reid
