'Eino y el cuarto del espejo' - 'Eino and the mirror room'

Eino, contemplaba su imagen en el espejo y el espejo era su alma. Cuando el viento amenazaba a los árboles y al mundo entero allá afuera, el cuarto del espejo lo mantenía alejado del frío, pero no lo privaba de su sinfonía otoñal.

Eino tomó un peine y lo deslizó por su larga cabellera rubia, mientras conversaba con el viento. Las hojas secas lo saludaban brevemente a través de la ventana, antes de caer.

“¿Tal vez unas gotas de lluvia?”, dijo en voz alta y dejó el peine a un lado. “Gotas de lluvia que te mojan, pero que apenas puedes ver”…murmuró a su propia imagen.

Eino sabía que su tiempo en el cuarto del espejo era limitado y debía darse prisa o terminaría por olvidarlo todo.

Se apresuró, porque no podía usar las palabras, ellas no tenían cabida ahí.

Una parte del viento se coló por las rendijas y se posó sobre su hombro para cantarle nuevamente; y él escribió.

Otra parte, golpeó su ventana sin tregua, hasta que logró entrar con su corte de hojas y lluvia invisible.

Eino escribía sin detenerse, su tiempo se agotaba, las hojas se le pegaban al rostro mojado, su pelo había dejado de ser rubio y sedoso, porque ahora era parte de la lluvia, como todo su ser...

Eino y el cuarto del espejo desaparecieron con la tormenta. Sólo quedó la melodía que pudo escribir...

RUSKA BY APOCALYPTICA
(EICCA TOPPINEN)

Eino was contemplating his image in the mirror and the mirror was his soul. When the wind was threatening the whole world out there, the mirror room was keeping him away from the cold, but it wasn't depriving him from its autumnal symphony.

Eino took a comb and slid it through his long, blond hair while talking to the wind. Dry leaves were waving at him briefly through the window before falling down.

‘Perhaps some raindrops?,’ said loudly and left the comb aside.

‘Raindrops that make you wet but that you can hardly see…,’ murmured to his own image.

Eino knew that his time in the mirror room was limited and that he should hurry up; otherwise he would end up forgetting everything.

He rushed because he couldn’t use the words; they had no room in there.

One part of the wind slipped through the gaps of the window and landed on his shoulder to sing to him once again; and he wrote.

Another part hit his window relentlessly until it managed to go in together with its court of leaves and invisible rain.

Eino was writing without stopping, his time was running out, the leaves were sticking to his wet face; his hair wasn't blond and silky anymore because now it was part of the rain, like all his being.

Eino and the mirror room vanished with the storm. It only remained the melody he could write…


Translation: Paula Oliva