In evening’s dome each bird is a point of memory.
It’s amazing sometimes how the years’ fervor
returns, returns without a body, returns for no reason at all,
how beauty, so brief in its violent love,
saves us an echo as night falls.
And so, what can you do but stand there slack-armed,
your heart overloaded and that taste of dust
that was a rose or a road—
Flight outflies the wing.
Without humility you know this remnant
was wrung from the dark by the work of silence?
that the branch in your hand, the dark tear
are your inheritance, the man with his story,
the lamp shining its light.
source : interrelevant.wordpress.com
I found one more translation which I actually liked more than the first one.
In the afternoon vault each bird is a point of memory. It is surprising at times that the fervour of time returns, without a body it returns, already without a reason it returns; that beauty, so brief in its violent love, keeps an echo for us in the descent of the night.
And so, what more than being with arms fallen, heart piled up and that taste of dust that was pink or road. The flight exceeds the wing. Without humility, to know that what remains was won in the shade by the work of silence; that the branch in the hand, that the dark tears are heritage, the man with his history, the lamp that illuminates.
~ Julio Cortázar
source : virtualpsychcentre.com