| Pablo Neruda -Entrada a la madera- |
| lunes, 30 de mayo de 2005 |
Entrada a la madera
Con mi razón apenas, con mis dedos,
con lentas aguas lentas inundadas,
caigo al imperio de los nomeolvides,
a una tenaz atmósfera de luto,
a una olvidada sala decaída,
a un racimo de tréboles amargos.
Caigo en la sombra, en medio
de destruidas cosas,
y miro arañas, y apaciento bosques
de secretas maderas inconclusas,
y ando entre húmedas fibras arrancadas
al vivo ser de substancia y silencio.
Dulce materia, oh rosa de alas secas,
en mi hundimiento tus pétalos
subo con pies pesados de roja fatiga,
y en tu catedral dura me arrodillo
golpeándome los labios con un ángel.
Es que soy yo
ante tu color de mundo,
ante tus pálidas espadas muertas,
ante tus corazones reunidos,
ante tu silenciosa multitud.
Soy yo ante tu ola de olores muriendo,
envueltos en otoño y resistencia:
soy yo emprendiendo un viaje funerario
entre sus cicatrices amarillas:
soy yo con mis lamentos sin origen,
sin alimentos, desvelado, solo,
entrando oscurecidos corredores,
llegando a tu materia misteriosa.
Veo moverse tus corrientes secas,
veo crecer manos interrumpidas,
oigo tus vegetales oceánicos
crujir de noche y furia sacudidos,
y siento morir hojas hacia adentro,
incorporando materiales verdes
a tu inmovilidad desamparada.
Poros, vetas, círculos de dulzura,
peso, temperatura silenciosa,
flechas pegadas a tu alma caída,
seres dormidos en tu boca espesa,
polvo de dulce pulpa consumida,
ceniza llena de apagadas almas,
venid a mí, a mi sueño sin medida,
caed en mi alcoba en que la noche cae
y cae sin cesar como agua rota,
y a vuestra vida, a vuestra muerte asidme,
a vuestros materiales sometidos,
a vuestras muertas palomas neutrales,
y hagamos fuego, y silencio, y sonido,
y ardamos, y callemos, y campanas.
Entrance into wood
Scarcely with my reason, with my fingers
with slow waters indolently swamped,
I fall into the realm of forget-me-nots,
into a tenacious air of mournfulness,
a decayed forgotten hall
and a cluster of bitter clover.
I fall into the shadows, to the core,
of shattered things,
and I see spiders, and I graze on thickets
of secret inconclusive woods,
and I pace through soaked, uprooted fibers
at the living heart of matter and silence.
Oh lovely matter, oh rose of dry wings,
as I drown I cling to your petals
my feet are burning with fatigue,
I kneel in your harsh cathedral
beating my lips with an angel.
It is because I am myself
faced with your color of world,
faced with your pale dead swords,
faced with your united hearts,
faced with your silent multitude.
I am the one facing your wave of dying fragrances,
wrapped in autumn and resistance;
about to take a funeral journey
along the ridges of yellow scars;
I with my lamentations that have no genesis
hungry, sleepless, alone
arriving at your mysterious essence.
I see the course of your petrified currents,
the growth of frozen, interrupted hands.
I hear your oceanic vegetation
rustling - shaken by night and fury
and I feel the leaves dying inward - to the very core
fusing their green substances
to your abandoned immobility.
Pores, veins, rings of sweetness,
weight, silent temperatures,
arrows piercing your fallen soul,
beings asleep in your thick mouth
shreds of sweet consumed pulp,
ashes filled with extinguished souls,
gather to me, to my measureless dream,
fall into my bedroom where night falls
and endlessly falls like broken water
and bind me to your life and to your death
and to your docile substances,
to your dead neutral doves,
and let us make fire, and silence, and sound,
and let us burn, and be silent, and bells."Etiquetas: Pablo Neruda |
posted by Bishop @ 11:10  |
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