| Pablo Neruda -Soneto XLI- |
| lunes, 11 de abril de 2005 |
Soneto XLI
Desdichas del mes de Enero cuando el indiferente
mediodía establece su ecuación en el cielo,
un oro duro como el vino de una copa colmada
llena la tierra hasta sus límites azules.
Desdichas de este tiempo parecidas a uvas
pequeñas que agruparon verde amargo,
confusas, escondidas lágrimas de los días
hasta que la intemperie publicó sus racimos.
Sí, gérmenes, dolores, todo lo que palpita
aterrado, a la luz crepitante de Enero,
madurará, arderá como ardieron los frutos.
Divididos serán los pesares: el alma
dará un golpe de viento, y la morada
quedará limpia con el pan fresco en la mesa.
Sonnet 41
Misfortunes of the month of January when indifferent
noon establishes its equation in the sky,
a solid gold like wine in an overflowing glass
fills the earth to its blue limits.
Misfortunes of this time, appearing like tiny grapes
that bunch together in green bitterness,
confused, secret tears of the days,
until the elements divulge their clusters.
Yes, seeds, grief, everything that pulses
terrified, in the crackling light of January,
will ripen, ferment, as the fruit ferments.
The sorrows will be divided: the soul
give a gasp of air, and the dwelling-place
will be left clean, with fresh-made bread on the table.Etiquetas: Pablo Neruda |
posted by Bishop @ 1:41  |
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Sonnet XLI
January rough times,when the indifferent
Moon makes its equation in the sky.
Like wine in a glass, a hard gold
fills the earth to its blue limits.
Rough times of the season, like little grapes
distilling green bitterness, the hidden
confused tears of the days,swelling in clusters,
till bad weather lays them bare.
Yes, seed-germs, and grief, and everything that throbs
frightened in the crackling January
light will ripen, will burn,as the fruit burned ripe.
And our problems will crumble apart,
the soul blow through like a wind,and here where
we live will all be clean again, with fresh bread on the table.
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Sonnet XLI
January rough times,when the indifferent
Moon makes its equation in the sky.
Like wine in a glass, a hard gold
fills the earth to its blue limits.
Rough times of the season, like little grapes
distilling green bitterness, the hidden
confused tears of the days,swelling in clusters,
till bad weather lays them bare.
Yes, seed-germs, and grief, and everything that throbs
frightened in the crackling January
light will ripen, will burn,as the fruit burned ripe.
And our problems will crumble apart,
the soul blow through like a wind,and here where
we live will all be clean again, with fresh bread on the table.