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|Poemas en Inglés
es un blog que pretende acercar poemas de lengua inglesa al castellano
"Por principio, toda traducción es buena. En cualquier caso, pasa con ellas lo que con las mujeres: de alguna manera son necesarias, aunque no todas son perfectas"
Augusto Monterroso -La palabra mágica-
"Es imposible traducir la poesía. ¿Acaso se puede traducir la música?" Voltaire
"Translating poetry is like making jewelry. Every word counts, and each sparkles with so many facets. Translating prose is like sculpting: get the shape and the lines right, then polish the seams later." James Nolan
"La traducción destroza el espíritu del idioma" Federico García Lorca
| Francisco de Quevedo -Salmo-
| lunes, 20 de septiembre de 2004
Miré los muros de la patria mía,
si un tiempo fuertes, ya desmoronados,
de la carrera de la edad cansados,
por quien caduca ya su valentía.
Salíme al campo; vi que el sol bebía
los arroyos del yelo desatados,
y del monte quejosos los ganados,
que con sombras hurtó su luz al día.
Entré en mi casa; vi que, amancillada,
de anciana habitación era despojos;
mi báculo, más corvo y menos fuerte.
Vencida de la edad sentí mi espada,
y no hallé cosa en que poner los ojos
que no fuese recuerdo de la muerte.
I looked upon my native country's walls,
if once they were strong, now they were decayed,
fatigued by time's inevitable race,
by which their former valor now must fade.
I went out to the fields; I saw the sun
drink up the brooks now freed from winter's ice,
and cattle of the mountain grumbling,
which with its shadows stole from day the light.
I went into my house; I saw that, stained,
it was just rubble of an ancient room;
my walking stick, more bowed and bearing less.
I saw my sword was overcome with age,
and nothing left on which to fix my glance
that was not a reminder now of death.
Translated by Alix Ingber
Etiquetas: Francisco de Quevedo
|posted by Bishop @ 12:30
I saw the ramparts of my native land
One time so strong, now dropping decay,
Their strength destroyed by this new age's way
That has worn out and rotted what was grand.
I went into the fields; there I could see
The sun drink up the waters new thawed;
And on the hills the moaning cattle pawed,
Their miseries robbed the light of day for me.
I went into my house; I saw how spotted,
Decaying things made that old home their prize;
My withered walking-staff had come to bend.
I felt the age had won; my sword was rotted;
And there was nothing on which to set my eyes
That was not a reminder of the end.
Translated by John Masefield
I beheld the walls of my native land,
Which, once so strong, had now been laid in ruin,
Besieged by time’s continuous demands,
Which taxed their valor till they crumbled in.
I walked into the fields where the sun
Drank the streams now freed from winter’s ice
And all around the scattered cattle groaned,
Complaining as the mountain stole the light.
I went inside my house and there I saw
My venerable home had been reduced to rubble,
My staff that once stood straight was bent and flawed,
My once-bright sword lay fractured and corroded.
No matter where my vision came to rest,
Everything reminded me of death.
Translated by Curt Hopkins