Harry's Circumcision
Lou Reed
Looking in the mirror Harry didn't like what he saw
The cheeks of his mother the eyes of his father
As each day crashed around him the future stood revealed
He was turning into his parents
The final disappointment
Stepping out of the shower Harry stared at himself
His hairline receding the slight overbite
He picked up the razor to beguin his shaving
and thought oh I wish I was different
I wish I was stronger I wish I was thinner
I wish I didn't have this nose
These ears that stick out remind me of my father
and I don't want to be reminded at all
The final disappointment
Harry looked in the mirror thinking of Vincent Van Gogh
and with a quick swipe lopped off his nose
And happy with that he made a slice where his chin was
He'd always wanted a dimple
The end of all illusion
Then peering down straight betwween his legs
Harry though of the range of possibilites
A new face a new life no memories of the past
and slit his throat from ear to ear
Harry woke up with a cough the stitches made him wince
A doctor smiled at him from somewhere across the room
Son we saved your life but you'll never look the same
And when he heard that, Harry had to laugh
And when he heard that, Harry had to laugh
Although it hurt Harry had to laugh
The final disappointment
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El espejo
José Ángel Valente
Hoy he visto mi rostro tan ajeno,
tan caído y sin par
en este espejo.
Está duro y tan otro con sus años,
su palidez, sus pómulos agudos,
su nariz afilada entre los dientes,
sus cristales domésticos cansados,
su costumbre sin fe, sólo costumbre.
He tocado sus sienes: aún latía
un ser allí. Latía. &#iexcl;Oh vida, vida!
Me he puesto a caminar. También fue niño
ese rostro, otra vez, con madre al fondo.
De frágiles juguetes fue tan niño,
en la casa lluviosa y trajinada,
en el parque infantil
- ángeles tontos -
niño municipal con aro y árboles.
Pero ahora me mira - mudo asombro,
glacial asombro en este espejo solo-,
y ¿ dónde estoy - me digo-
y quién me mira
desde este rostro, máscara de nadie?
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Afaitat
Francesc Parcerises
Contempla't al mirall, desconegut igual,
ensopit pel son, sorprès de veure't.
Aquests solcs o aquesta grisor a les temples
ja els has anat acceptant de grat
—hoste feliç,
quasi imprevist,
que no recordes quin dia va aparèixer.
És el preu descarat que et cal pagar
per la fictícia intimitat del cos.
I, ara, comença a afaitar-te.
La fulla, abans ràpida i freda,
ja no llisca, tensa , per la pell
amb frec plaent d'esquí jovenívol:
has de tibar la galta flàccida
amb els dits. No desesperis.
Potser si evites , astut per força,
la marca vergonyosa d'un tall
podràs oblidar que l'aliança amb el cos
ja ha començat a dissoldre's.
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