Just as we grew accustomed to fair weather
you concoct the storm, unexpected rain,
and mask with darkness the vaulted sky
cutting back the hues of afternoon.
Yet everything seems to say this ruthless downpour
that flows and swells, and resembles a river,
reckless and enraged, flooding everything,
will only last a few moments, perhaps.
Thus you intend to remind us that all tings die,
that even though life is benign
like this moveless mugginess of iron
passions vanish as well, short-lived.
Before the dark day goes to its den
this milky shower, so cold, so gray,
will be the raindrop dangling from deranged foliage
where we come to see, crystal-clear in the dying light,
the frailty of time as it tows us along.
Traduït per D. Sam Abrams
Francesc Parcerisas, Rain. PARCERISAS, Francesc. The golden age. [Edició bilingüe]. Barcelona: Institut d’Estudis nord-americans, 1991, pp.36-37.