I have already introduced three German romantic autumns. How could I be so partial? So today, I shall introduce another poem on that rather ambiguous season of the year, poised uncertainly between summer and winter by another poet. But this time, it shall not be a poet from the heart of Europe but from its south. It is written by one of my favourite Spanish poets, Federico Garcia Lorca (1898-1936) . He is one of the reasons why I fell in love with the Spanish language. It is an extremely short poem, written by Lorca when he was just beginning to write poetry. But I am not sure about when exactly it was written. From its style, I guess it must be one of his early poems. He has also written another much longer poem called "Ritmo de Otoño" or "The Rhythm of Autumn", to a friend for whom he had a great deal of affection, Manuel Angeles. But here I shall translate the shorter one. Here it is:
Ontoño Autumn 秋日
Los árboles de mi calle The trees of my street 我街之樹
se están poniendo dorados; are wearing gold; 穿上金黃
el otoño de otros años the autumn of other years 往年之秋
ha vuelto y los ha pintado has returned and painted them 已返並替其上色
Prontito caerán sus hojas very swiftly their leaves fall 其葉迅速墮下
y el viento las llevará. and the wind will take them away. 風將帶走他們
Y cuando acabe el otoño And when autumn ends 秋盡時
ni una hoja quedará, not a leaf will be left. 將一葉不留。
As I said, this is an extremely simple poem. To me, it is as if I am reading Li Bai. The poet is seeing everything as if he were looking with the eyes of a child. Legend has it that before he was satisfied that a poem was right, Li Bai would first read it to a child and only when he was satisfied that even the child could understand what he wrote would he decide that that would be the form of his poem. When I first read this poem, this is how I felt. That is one of the reasons why I love Lorca. I love his simplicity. I love his economy. He just didn't care how the others would judge his poems. He wrote it the way he thought it should be written. For this I love him. He wrote himself. You see him in this poem. There is a total lack of philosophical reflection. He simply described what he saw and what he would likely see! There is no sadness. There is no happiness. There are no regrets. There is no nostalgia. There are no hopes. The trees will be bare, without a single leaf. That is the end, as it was and as it will be. But while the trees were still there, he found their color gold. When they read the poem, the readers will find the trees, just as they are. Lorca just presented a mirror. When they look, his readers will see their own emotions. They will see themselves!
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