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Variant 1: Literal Translation

(High fidelity to the original syntax and meaning)

It was not a path, but a home
that we inhabited without knowing it.
First the foundations, the inheritance:
the slow step of the grandparents
and that smell of resin and wood
that kept the damp silence of time.

Then, the walls. My parents
raised them with the patience
of one who does not know that they are building
something that will have to be lost.
We were three: my parents and I,
and a love that weighed like the silence of books.
We cemented light with our shadows,
making of scarcity a kingdom.

Later came the cracks.
Not in the walls, but in the bodies.
Illness bit the corners
and opened rooms of a hospital grey,
of a grey of waiting.
But the home withstood the push
and in the stubbornness of its own
love was the bandage and the bone.

e In the end, we understood the cycle,
that this space has a closure.
But in the center of the living room,
when pain releases the dam,
the library waits in its order.
Its spines, a landscape of memory.
It is not a bastion, nor an end.
It is the evidence
that something, when read,
still burns.

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Variant 2: Sonorous Translation

(Adjusted for rhythmic flow and lexical resonance in English)

It was no path we took, but a home
we came to live in without knowing.
First, the foundations, what came down:
the measured step of grandparents
and that scent of resin, of wood
that held the damp silence of time.

Then the walls. My parents
raised them with the patience
of those who do not know they are building
something that must one day be lost.
We were three: my parents and I,
and a love that weighed like the hush of books.
We set light with our own shadows,
made of scarcity a small kingdom.

Later, the cracks appeared.
Not in the walls, but in the flesh.
Illness gnawed at the corners
and opened rooms the grey of a ward,
the grey of waiting.
But the home held against the push,
and in the stubbornness of its people
love was the bandage and the bone.

In the end, we came to see the cycle,
that this space has its closing.
Yet in the centre of the living room,
when pain loosens its grip,
the library waits, orderly.
Its spines, a landscape of memory.
It is no fortress, no ending.
It is the proof
that something, once read,
is still alight.

First Night: Eternity in the Riverbed of Time
Time, a blind river, does not halt its turning,
yet the trace in the mind that memory preserves.
Dreams that oblivion never manages to reach,
echoes of an ancient world turning in its measure.
The light of what has been lived overcomes the penumbra,
stars in the chest that the void does not extinguish.
Silence dilates the instant and makes it eternal,
embers of a memory that time does not consume.
There, where the cycle and eternity meet,
time and memory in a living flame.
No sunset breaks their deepest embrace,
a lone symphony of light in the first night.

They dress their chimeras in silk,
flaunt prestige and mask so fine,
yet behind the restless guise
burns desire and its storms;
they rise in public squares
of congress halls and town communes,
swear values from the rostrum,
utter words most grave and dire
while greed quietly opens
another discreet game.

Stillness like the one that was, longing for its return,
from weariness of words that repeat without cease,
echo of an endless yesterday, exhausted in its tedium and disgust,
I swear never to fall into such vile and cruel vice.

Huge and radiant, in full phase it rises,
faithful satellite with an eternal, unfathomable cloak,
it pulls on the seas with invincible, tenacious might,
it steadies the world with its peerless light.

We are the generation that won't return,
dusty shoes, scraped knees,
heart racing down the street, ball in hand,
quick snack, adventure ignited.

Life does not only breathe or beat,
but exhales a glow almost absent,
sparks of light from an inner fire burning.