Pablo Neruda -¿Y cuánto vive?-

¿Y cuánto vive?


Cuánto vive el hombre, por fin?

Vive mil días o uno solo?

Una semana o varios siglos?

Por cuánto tiempo muere el hombre?

Qué quiere decir "Para siempre"?

Preocupado por este asunto
me dediqué a aclarar las cosas.

Busqué a los sabios sacerdotes,
los esperé después del rito,
los aceché cuando salían
a visitar a Dios y al Diablo.

Se aburrieron con mis preguntas.
Ellos tampoco sabían mucho,
eran sólo administradores.

Los médicos me recibieron,
entre una consulta y otra,
con un bisturí en cada mano,
saturados a aureomicina,
más ocupados cada día.
Según supe por lo que hablaban
el problema era como sigue:
nunca murió tanto microbio,
toneladas de ellos caían,
pero los pocos que quedaron
se manifestaban perversos.

Me dejaron tan asustado
que busqué a los enterradores.
Me fui a los ríos donde queman
grandes cadáveres pintados,
pequeños muertos huesudos,
emperadores recubiertos
por escamas aterradoras,
mujeres aplastadas de pronto
por una ráfaga de cólera.
Eran riberas de difuntos
y especialistas cenicientos.

Cuando llegó mi oportunidad
les largué unas cuantas preguntas,
ellos me ofrecieron quemarme:
era todo lo que sabían.

En mi país los enterradores
me contestaron, entre copas:
"-Búscate una moza robusta,
y déjate de tonterías".

Nunca vi gentes tan alegres.
Cantaban levantando el vino
por la salud y la muerte.
Eran grandes fornicadores.

Regresé a mi casa más viejo
después de recorrer el mundo.

No le pregunto a nadie nada.

Pero sé cada día menos.


And how long?

How much does a man live, after all?

Does he live a thousand days, or one only?

For a week, or for several centuries?

How long does a man spend dying?

What does it mean to say 'for ever'?

Lost in this preoccupation,
I set myself to clear things up.

I sought out knowledgable priests,
I waited for them after their rituals,
I watched them when they went their ways
to visit God and the Devil.

They wearied of my questions.
They on their part knew very little.
They were no more than administrators.

Medical men received me
in between consultations,
a scalpel in each hand,
saturated in aureomycin,
busier each day.
As far as I could tell from their talk,
the problem was as follows:
it was not so much the death of a microbe--
they went down by the ton,
but the few which survived
showed signs of perversity.

They left me so startled
that I sought out the grave-diggers.
I went to the rivers where they burn
enormous painted corpses,
tiny bony bodies,
emperors with an aura
of terrible curses,
women snuffed out at a stroke
by a wave of cholera.
There were whole beaches of dead
and ashy specialists.

When I got the chance
I asked them a slew of questions.
They offered to burn me.
It was all they knew.

In my own country the dead
answered me, between drinks:
'Get yourself a good woman
and give up this nonsense.'

I never saw people so happy.

Raising their glasses they sang
toasting health and death.
They were huge fornicators.

I returned home, much older
after crossing the world.

Now I ask questions of nobody,

But I know less every day.