En los claustros del alma la herida...
En los claustros del alma la herida
yace callada; mas consume, hambrienta,
la vida, que en mis venas alimenta
llama por las medulas extendida.
Bebe el ardor, hidrópica, mi vida,
que ya, ceniza amante y macilenta,
cadáver del incendio hermoso, ostenta
su luz en humo y noche fallecida.
La gente esquivo y me es horror el día;
dilato en largas voces negro llanto,
que a sordo mar mi ardiente pena envía.
A los suspiros di la voz del canto;
la confusión inunda l'alma mía;
mi corazón es reino del espanto.
In the cloisters of my soul the wound
In the cloisters of my soul the wound
lies quiet; but hungrily it consumes
the life that in my veins feeds
a flame that extends through my marrow.
My dropsied life drinks the fire
as now, emaciated and loving ash,
the remains of the lovely fire, it displays
its extinguished light in smoke and darkness.
I flee people and am horrified by the day;
I extend in long cries my black weeping,
which to a silent sea my burning pain sends.
To cries I gave the voice of song;
confusion floods my soul;
my heart is a realm of terror.Etiquetas: Francisco de Quevedo |
