Lack of inspiration

Whenever I lack the necessary inspiration to write, the adequate muse, I translate something. Here are the results. It's a poem by spanish writer Vicente Gallego, to be studied in Spanish departments in some 50 years.

"In those dark hours
that keep growing in our lives
like the night grows in the winter,
in those hours, quite often
a beautiful and relentless image reassures me.

I come back to a beach of another time,
still close. It’s a startling day
of the end of September, and the sea glitters
with its slow structure, exact and suggestive
like a knife.
There are still some bathers at this doubtful
time of the evening, and a group of young girls
tells me I am not alone.
The sea tans their seventeen year old bodies,
and the breeze is fresh, and in their necks
the humidity intensifies the smell of perfume.

The evening goes by sweetly,
the young girls laugh and give me their joy,
even though I love none of them
and there’s a flair of farewell everywhere:
in the summer, in the bathers,
in the girls I don’t know today,
in the light of the beach.

I enjoyed that welcomed moment
just as a present is enjoyed,
quiet in its wonder, doomed to be forgotten
behind the frequent happiness of those years.
And now I realize that in that evening
something more than beauty was hiding,
because its light saves me, many times,
in the dark hours.

In the dark hours I am reassured
by a relentless image of happiness.
And I wonder why it comes back,
and what is it that I lost in that beach."