The Investigator, Translation of Carlos Bousono’s poem : El Investigador
for Alexandrito, seven months
The little infant keeps watching, staying attentive : what’s this.
The little box , all by itself, (is) of the most engaging interest.
The little box appeared full of a profound interest.
If it doesn’t budge, keep silent, dream, if it stirs.
He turns it on its head, weighs it in his hand, thing to touch.
If he gets close, it grows, if he keeps a distance, amounts to not much.
The box in its listless posture does not wish to be.
When moved to another place, changes completely.
What you have seen, is it valid ? Neither a fixed form nor norm ?
When moved, cataclysmic change seizes its form.
Standing it upright or casting it aside, yes, he can.
But what’s surprising is that fall it/he can.
One little box lends itself to much occupation.
The teacher knows it : he has to hurry up,
Or else the little box will never be found or thought up.
He threw it on top of a rag, by disaster taken over :
All of a sudden, the little box was seen no more.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013