Autumn is the Truce

It's autumn again in this hemisphere, once again the season of respite between the stifling heat of summer and winter. With a romantic vision, it’s the season of dry leaves swirling in the wind, of ochre hues, of animals preparing their shelters, of melancholy.

But in Cuba, this climatic respite isn't significant because temperatures remain very high, and along with the drought, the Saharan dust, and more, we still feel like we're burning at the stake. This will be the case for at least two more months.

In the past, things were different; it rained a lot, and that helped a lot. The bad thing was when it would catch us out on the streets, and walking around wet is always annoying, but if it rained at night, it helped us sleep and kept everything very cool. And if it rained and the weather turned gray, the streets were quiet, the hustle and bustle subsided, and people took some time out for their busy outdoor activities. That would be a relief now.

Although days are still so hot and make us sweat abundantly, at night I feel like things are better. Perhaps only a degree or two in difference, and a little more is needed to feel complete relief, but soon it will be.

Autumn comes with a certain calm, with that air of nostalgia and poetry. That's why, while in its historic rotation, Earth moves slightly away from the sun for a few months. It has served as inspiration for artists of the brush and letters, who with their sensitivity have expressed how this season not only changes the landscapes in color and foliage.

Here is a brief selection.

Autumn (by Mario Benedetti, Uruguay, 1920-2009)

Aprovechemos el otoño
antes de que el invierno nos escombre
entremos a codazos en la franja del sol
y admiremos a los pájaros que emigran
ahora que calienta el corazón
aunque sea de a ratos y de a poco
pensemos y sintamos todavía
con el viejo cariño que nos queda
aprovechemos el otoño
antes de que el futuro se congele
y no haya sitio para la belleza
porque el futuro se nos vuelve escarcha.

Landscape (by Federico García Lorca, Spain, 1898-1936)

La tarde equivocada
se vistió de frío.
Detrás de los cristales,
turbios, todos los niños,
ven convertirse en pájaros
un árbol amarillo.
La tarde está tendida
a lo largo del río.
Y un rubor de manzana
tiembla en los tejadillos.

From Autumn (by Rubén Darío, 1867, Nicaragua-1916)

Yo sé que hay quienes dicen: ¿por qué no canta ahora
con aquella locura armoniosa de antaño?
Ésos no ven la obra profunda de la hora,
la labor del minuto y el prodigio del año.
Yo, pobre árbol, produje, al amor de la brisa,
cuando empecé a crecer, un vago y dulce son.
Pasó ya el tiempo de la juvenil sonrisa:
¡dejad al huracán mover mi corazón!

Translated by Amilkal Labañino / CubaSí Translation Staff