| César Vallejo -Los desgraciados- |
| sábado, 10 de enero de 2004 |
Los desgraciados
Ya va a venir el día; da
cuerda a tu brazo, búscate debajo
del colchón, vuelve a pararte
en tu cabeza, para andar derecho.
Ya va a venir el día, ponte el saco.
Ya va a venir el día; ten
fuerte en la mano a tu intestino grande, reflexiona
antes de meditar, pues es horrible
cuando le cae a uno la desgracia
y se le cae a uno a fondo el diente.
Necesitas comer, pero, me digo,
no tengas pena, que no es de pobres
la pena, el sollozar junto a su tumba;
remiéndote, recuerda,
confía en tu hilo blanco, fuma, pasa lista
a tu cadena y guárdala detrás de tu retrato.
Ya va a venir el dia, ponte el alma.
Ya va a venir el día; pasan,
han abierto en el hotel un ojo,
azotándolo, dándole con un espejo tuyo . . .
¿Tiemblas? Es el estado remoto de la frente
y la nación reciente del estómago.
Roncan aún . . . ¡Qué universo se lleva este ronquido!
¡Cómo quedan tus poros, enjuiciándolo!
¡Con cuántos doses ¡ay! estás tan solo!
Ya va a venir el día, ponte el sueño.
Ya va a venir el día, repito
por el órgano oral de tu silencio
y urge tomar la izquierda con el hambre
y tomar la derecha con la sed; de todos modos,
abstente de ser pobre con los ricos,
atiza
tu frío, porque el él se integra mi calor, amada víctima.
Ya va a venir el día, ponte el cuerpo.
Ya va a venir el día;
la mañana, la mar, el meteoro, van
en pos de tu cansancio, con banderas,
y, por tu orgullo clásico, las hienas
cuentan sus pasos al compás del asno,
la panadera piensa en ti,
el carnicero piensa en ti, palpando
el hacha en que están presos
el acero y el hierro y el metal; jamás olvides
que durante la misa no hay amigos.
Ya va a venir el día, ponte el sol.
Ya viene el día; dobla
el aliento, triplica
tu bondad rencorosa
y da codos al miedo, nexo y énfasis,
pues tú, como se observe en tu entrepierna y siendo
el malo ¡ay! inmortal,
has soñado esta noche que vivías
de nada y morîas de todo . . .
Los desgraciados
The day's about to come; wind up
your arm, look for yourself underneath
the mattress, turn and stand on
your head, in order to walk straight.
The day's about to come, put on your coat.
The day's about to come; grab
your gut tight in your hand, reflect
before you meditate, so it's awful
when misery overtakes you
and some tooth sinks down into you to the depths.
You have to eat, but I tell myself,
don't grieve, that's not for the poor,
grief and sobbing by the tomb;
patch yourself together, remember,
trust your white thread, smoke, check up
on your chain and hide it behind your portrait.
The day's about to come, put on your soul.
The day's about to come; they're going by,
they've opened up an eye in the hotel,
banging on it, flashing your mirror at it . . .
Are you trembling? It's the remote state of the forehead
and the recent nation of the stomach.
They're still snoring . . . What universe puts up with this snore?
The way your pores stay there, judging it!
With so many twos, ay, you're so alone!
The day's about to come, put on your dream.
The day's about to come, I repeat
through the oral organ of your silence
and the urge to turn left with hunger
and right with thirst; in any case
stop being poor with the rich,
stir up
your cold, because within it is mixed my warmth, beloved victim.
The day's about to come, put on you body.
The day's about to come;
the morning, the sea, the meteor, are going
after your exhaustion with banners,
and by your classic pride, the hyenas
count their steps to be in time with the ass,
the baker's wife is thinking of you,
the butcher is thinking of you, fingering
the hatchet in which are imprisoned
the steel and the iron and the metal; never forget
that during the Mass there are no friends.
The day's about to come, put on the sun.
The day is here; double
your breaths, triple
your rancorous goodwill
and give the elbow to fear, nix and exclamation point;
well, you, as your crotch shows, and being
a bad one, ay, immortal,
have dreamed this night that you were living
on nothing and dying from everything.
Translated by Sandy McKinneyEtiquetas: César Vallejo |
posted by Bishop @ 12:00  |
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| 1 Comments: |
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THE WRETCHED OF THE EARTH
The day is about to come; wind
up your arm, look for yourself under
the mattress, stand again
on your head, to walk straight.
The day is about to come, put on your coat.
The day is about to come; grip
your large intestine tight in your hand, reflect,
before you meditate, for it is horrible
when misfortune falls on one
and your tooth falls out.
You have to eat, but, I tell myself,
do not grieve, for grief and graveside
sobbing do not belong to the poor;
mend yourself, remember,
trust your white thread, smoke, call roll
on your chain and keep it behind your portrait.
The day is about to come, put on your soul.
The day is about to come; they go by,
they have opened an eye in the hotel,
lashing it, beating it with one of your mirrors...
are you trembling? It is the remote state of your forehead
and the recent nation of your stomach.
They're still snoring... What a universe is carried away by this snore!
And in what state your pores are left, on judging it!
With so many twos, my god! how alone you are!
The day is about to come, put on your dream.
The day is about to come, I repeat
through the oral organ of your silence
and it is urgent to take the left with your hunger
and to take the right with your thirst; in any case,
abstain from being poor with the rich,
stir
your cold, because my warmth
becomes part of it, beloved victim.
The day is about to come, put on your body.
The day is about to come,
the morning, the sea, the meteor, go
after your weariness, with banners,
and, because of your classic pride, the hyenas
count their steps to the beat of the jackass,
the baker's wife thinks about you,
the butcher thinks about you, groping
the ax in which the steel
and the iron and the metal are imprisoned; never forget
that during Mass there are no friends.
The day is about to come, put on your sun.
The day is now coming, double
your breath, triple
your rancorous goodness
and scorn fear, nexus and emphasis,
for you, as one can observe in your crotch, the evil man
being, god! immortal,
have dreamed tonight that you were living
on nothing and dying from everything...
Translated by C. Eshelman
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THE WRETCHED OF THE EARTH
The day is about to come; wind
up your arm, look for yourself under
the mattress, stand again
on your head, to walk straight.
The day is about to come, put on your coat.
The day is about to come; grip
your large intestine tight in your hand, reflect,
before you meditate, for it is horrible
when misfortune falls on one
and your tooth falls out.
You have to eat, but, I tell myself,
do not grieve, for grief and graveside
sobbing do not belong to the poor;
mend yourself, remember,
trust your white thread, smoke, call roll
on your chain and keep it behind your portrait.
The day is about to come, put on your soul.
The day is about to come; they go by,
they have opened an eye in the hotel,
lashing it, beating it with one of your mirrors...
are you trembling? It is the remote state of your forehead
and the recent nation of your stomach.
They're still snoring... What a universe is carried away by this snore!
And in what state your pores are left, on judging it!
With so many twos, my god! how alone you are!
The day is about to come, put on your dream.
The day is about to come, I repeat
through the oral organ of your silence
and it is urgent to take the left with your hunger
and to take the right with your thirst; in any case,
abstain from being poor with the rich,
stir
your cold, because my warmth
becomes part of it, beloved victim.
The day is about to come, put on your body.
The day is about to come,
the morning, the sea, the meteor, go
after your weariness, with banners,
and, because of your classic pride, the hyenas
count their steps to the beat of the jackass,
the baker's wife thinks about you,
the butcher thinks about you, groping
the ax in which the steel
and the iron and the metal are imprisoned; never forget
that during Mass there are no friends.
The day is about to come, put on your sun.
The day is now coming, double
your breath, triple
your rancorous goodness
and scorn fear, nexus and emphasis,
for you, as one can observe in your crotch, the evil man
being, god! immortal,
have dreamed tonight that you were living
on nothing and dying from everything...
Translated by C. Eshelman