José Pérez Olivares

[José Pérez Olivares]

Jacob and Esau

Isaac was sixty years old when

he fathered them.

GENESIS, 25.26

I love Jacob and Esau.

I love them with the dark mercy that flows from my soul,

with the strange quivering

that dwells deep down in my blood.

I love them blindly, as a father usually loves his children.

And I can’t say that I prefer one of them

because both are, before my eyes, masters

of my truth,

which is the truth of the man who gets old.

If one is taciturn, the other is full of life.

If one is captivated by the music of the wind

at the top of the trees,

the other, on the contrary, clamors for the harsh sound of the sword

when hitting the sword.

That’s the way Jacob and Esau are,

and that’s the way I see them, as their father.

But sometimes, when I close my eyes and meditate,

I wonder about things.

And a strange restlessness runs through my body.

It runs through it from north to south

while I think, for instance, about the way they sometimes

look at each other,

and about the dark challenge that I notice in their looks.

Could it be the rancor that also springs from paternity?

Or could it be that being a brother demands, straight,

the non-grasping confirmation of doubt?

Above all I love my sons.

And they also love me, in their own way.

With this conviction any man

would close his eyes in peace.

He would close them without the need to wonder.

And nevertheless I’m afraid.

I’m afraid Jacob and Esau may only wait for my death

in order to give up their placid mask.

[Translated by Isabel Robles]