Al ver mis horas de fiebre 

For the 61st of his sequence of rhymes, Spanish romantic poet Gustavo Adolfo Becquer meditates on his own insignificance, or, if you prefer, indulges in an extended expression of self pity. From sickness through death, burial and posterity, nobody will care for or even remember this poet. Well, today’s blog post proves that idea wrong, 150 years or so later…

Rima 61

Gustavo Adolfo Becquer

Al ver mis horas de fiebre

e insomnio lentas pasar,

a la orilla de mi lecho,

¿quién se sentará?

Cuando la trémula mano

tienda, próximo a expirar,

buscando una mano amiga,

¿quién la estrechará?

Cuando la muerte vidríe

de mis ojos el cristal,

mis párpados aún abiertos,

¿quién los cerrará?

Cuando la campana suene

(si suena en mi funeral)

una oración, al oírla,

¿quién murmurará?

Cuando mis pálidos restos

oprima la tierra ya,

sobre la olvidada fosa,

¿quién vendrá a llorar?

¿Quién en fin, al otro día,

cuando el sol vuelva a brillar,

de que pasé por el mundo

quién se acordará?

From <>

The poem describes a gradual descent from fever to death and oblivion for the poet, with at each stage nobody who cares, nobody who notices and ultimately nobody who remembers. Each four line stanza describes one step in this lonely and forlorn process in which the poet ends up completely forgotten by all, even if each stanza ends with the question, asking who will be there, who will weep, who will remember, the answer is understood. But the world will continue and the cycle start again, with another day, another poet, and so on, and so on…

The Poetry Dude


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