| Pablo Neruda -Soneto VI-
| domingo, 10 de abril de 2005
En los bosques, perdido, corté una rama oscura
y a los labios, sediento, levanté su susurro:
era tal vez la voz de la lluvia llorando,
una campana rota o un corazón cortado.
Algo que desde tan lejos me parecía
oculto gravemente, cubierto por la tierra,
un grito ensordecido por inmensos otoños,
por la entreabierta y húmeda tiniebla de las hojas.
Pero allí, despertando de los sueños del bosque,
la rama de avellano cantó bajo mi boca
y su errabundo olor trepó por mi criterio
como si me buscaran de pronto las raíces
que abandoné, la tierra perdida con mi infancia,
y me detuve herido por el aroma errante.
Lost in the woods, I cut off a swarthy bough
and thirstily lifted its whisper to my lips:
perhaps it was the voice of the weeping rain,
a broken bell or a rent heart.
Something that, from so far off, seemed to me
to be hidden deep down, covered by the earth,
a cry muffled by immense autumns,
by the moist, imperfect darkness of the leaves.
But there, waking from the dreams of the wood,
the hazel branch sang under my mouth
and its wondering odour climbed into my reason
as though I were suddenly sought by the roots
that I abandoned, the earth lost with my childhood,
and I stopped, stricken by the wandering aroma.
Etiquetas: Pablo Neruda
|posted by Bishop @ 1:06
Lost in the forest, I broke off a dark twig
and lifted its whisper to my thirsty lips:
maybe it was the voice of the rain crying,
a cracked bell, or a torn heart.
Something from far off it seemed
deep and secret to me, hidden by the earth,
a shout muffled by huge autumns,
by the moist half-open darkness of the leaves.
Wakening from the dreaming forest there, the hazel-sprig
sang under my tongue, its drifting fragrance
climbed up through my conscious mind
as if suddenly the roots I had left behind
cried out to me, the land I had lost with my childhood---
and I stopped, wounded by the wandering scent.
Lost in the woods, I snapped off a dark branch
and, lifted its murmur, in thirst, to my lips:
perhaps the weeping voice of the rain,
a shattered bell, or a broken heart.
It came to me, something out of far distance,
deeply concealed, and hidden by Earth,
a cry, defeated by immense autumns,
by half-opened moistness of shadowy leaves.
But waking out of the wood’s dream there,
that hazel branch sang under my tongue,
and its vagrant perfume rose to my mind
as if suddenly roots I had long abandoned
searched me, the lost domains of childhood,
and held me, wounded by wandering fragrance.