La aurora
La aurora de Nueva York tiene cuatro columnas de cieno y un huracán de negras palomas que chapotean las aguas podridas.
La aurora de Nueva York gime por las inmensas escaleras buscando entre las aristas nardos de angustia dibujada.
La aurora llega y nadie la recibe en su boca porque allí no hay mañana ni esperanza posible. A veces las monedas en enjambres furiosos taladran y devoran abandonados niños.
Los primeros que salen comprenden con sus huesos que no habrá paraíso ni amores deshojados; saben que van al cieno de números y leyes, a los juegos sin arte, a sudores sin fruto.
La luz es sepultada por cadenas y ruidos en impúdico reto de ciencia sin raíces. Por los barrios hay gentes que vacilan insomnes como recién salidas de un naufragio de sangre.
Dawn
Dawn in New York has four columns of mire and a hurricane of black pigeons splashing in the putrid waters.
Dawn in New York groans on enormous fire escapes searching between the angles for spikenards of drafted anguish.
Dawn arrives and no one receives it in his mouth because morning and hope are impossible there: sometimes the furious swarming coins penetrate like drills and devour abandoned children.
Those who go out early know in their bones there will be no paradise or loves that bloom and die: they know they will be mired in numbers and laws, in mindless games, in fruitless labors.
The light is buried under chains and noises in the impudent challenge of rootless science. And crowds stagger sleeplessly through the boroughs as if they had just escaped a shipwreck of blood.Etiquetas: Federico García Lorca |
THE DAWN
The New York dawn has
four columns of mud
and a hurricane of black pigeons
splashing in fetid waters.
The New York dawn groans
along vast stairs
searching between the edges
for spikenards of sketched anguish.
The dawn arrives and nobody receives it in the mouth
because tomorrow and hope are not possible there:
sometimes furious swarms of coins
drill and devour abandoned children.
The first to get out know in their bones:
they know they are headed into the mud of numbers and laws,
to artless games, to fruitless labors.
The light is buried under chains and noise
in a shameless challenge of rootless science.
Through the boroughs people hesitate sleepless
as if they have emerged from a shipwreck of blood.
Translated by The Leopard