| César Vallejo -Quedéme a calentar la tinta- |
| sábado, 10 de enero de 2004 |
Quedéme a calentar la tinta
Quedéme a calentar la tinta en que me ahogo
y a escuchar mi cavema alternativa,
noches de tacto, días de abstracción.
Se estremeció la incógnita en me amígdala
y crují de una anual melancolía,
noches de sol, días de luna, ocasos de París.
Y todavía, hoy mismo, al atardecer,
digiero sacratísimas constancias,
noches de madre, días de biznieta
bicolor, voluptuosa, urgente, linda.
Y aun
alcanzo, llego hasta mí en avión de dos asientos,
bajo la mañana doméstica y la bruma
que emergió eternamente de un instante.
Y todavía,
aun ahora,
al cabo del cometa en que he ganado
mi bacilo feliz y doctoral,
he aquí que caliente, oyente, tierro, sol y luno,
incógnito atravieso el cementerio,
tomo a la izquierda, hiendo
la yerba con un par de endecasílabos,
años de tumba, litros de infinito,
tinta, pluma, ladrillos y perdones.
I stayed on to heat the ink
I stayed on to heat the ink in which I am drowning
and to listen to my alternative cavern,
nights of touch, days of abstraction.
The unknown trembled in my tonsil,
and I rustled from an annual melancholy,
nights of sun, days of moon, sunsets of Paris.
And still, on this very day, as it gets dark,
I digest sacred certainties,
nights of mother, days of great-granddaughter,
bicolored, voluptuous, urgent, pretty.
And yet
I reach, I arrive at myself in an airplane with two seats,
beneath the domestic morning and the mist
that emerged eternally from an instant.
And still,
even now,
at the end of the comet in which I have earned
my happy and doctoral bacillus,
here it is that heated, listening, earthlike, sun and moonlike,
I travel incognito through the cemetery,
turn to the left, splitting
the grass with a pair of hendecasyllables,
years of tomb, liters of infinity,
ink, pen, bricks and pardons.
Translated by Mary SarkoEtiquetas: César Vallejo |
posted by Bishop @ 10:40  |
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I STAYED ON TO WARM UP THE INK
I stayed on to warm up the ink in which I drown
and to listen to my alternative cavern,
tactile nights, abstracted days.
The unknown shuddered in my tonsil
and I creaked from an annual melancholy,
solar nights, lunar days, Parisian sunsets.
And still, this very day, at nightfall,
I digest the most sacred certainties,
maternal nights, great-granddaughter days,
bicolored, voluptuous, urgent, lovely.
And yet
I arrive, I reach myself in a two-seated plane
under the domestic morning and the mist
which emerged eternally from an instant.
And still,
even now,
at the tail of the comet in which I have earned
my happy and doctoral bacillus,
behold that warm, listener, male earth, sun and male moon,
incognito I cross the cemetery,
head off to the left, splitting
the grass with a pair of hendecasyllables,
tombal years, infinite liters,
ink, pen, bricks and pardons.
Translated by Clayton Eshleman
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I STAYED ON TO WARM UP THE INK
I stayed on to warm up the ink in which I drown
and to listen to my alternative cavern,
tactile nights, abstracted days.
The unknown shuddered in my tonsil
and I creaked from an annual melancholy,
solar nights, lunar days, Parisian sunsets.
And still, this very day, at nightfall,
I digest the most sacred certainties,
maternal nights, great-granddaughter days,
bicolored, voluptuous, urgent, lovely.
And yet
I arrive, I reach myself in a two-seated plane
under the domestic morning and the mist
which emerged eternally from an instant.
And still,
even now,
at the tail of the comet in which I have earned
my happy and doctoral bacillus,
behold that warm, listener, male earth, sun and male moon,
incognito I cross the cemetery,
head off to the left, splitting
the grass with a pair of hendecasyllables,
tombal years, infinite liters,
ink, pen, bricks and pardons.
Translated by Clayton Eshleman