Spanish Poems

WOUNDS OF LOVE

This light, this devouring fire;
this grey landscape that surrounds me;
this grief for an obsessive idea;
this anguish of heaven, world and time;

this sorrowing blood that adorns
the lyre now unplucked, lubricious torch;
this weight of the sea that strikes me;
this scorpion nesting in my heart;

these are a garland of love, a bed for the wounded,
where without sleeping I dream you are here
among the ruins of my stricken breast.

And although I look for total safety,
your heart gives me a valley spread out
with hemlock and passion for bitter knowledge.

Translated by Brian Cole

WOUNDS OF LOVE

This light that consumes, this fire that devours,
This land of grey surrounding me with fear,
This sorrow fathered by a lone idea,
This anguish of sky, world, and dwindling hours,

This blood lament which graces, gives art
To a pulseless lyre, a lusty firebrand,
This heavy ocean pounding me to sand,
This scorpion lurking deep within my heart

Are all love's wreath, a wounded man's bed,
Where without sleep's dreams, I dream your presence
Amidst the ruins of my shattered head.

And though I yearn for the peaks of prudence
Your heart conjures for me a valley spread
With hemlock and passion of harsh science.

Translated by Sebastian Doggart

LACERATIONS OF LOVE

This light, this fire, this quick devouring lime;
This grey and empty landscape that surrounds me;
This torment of one sole idea that hounds me;
This anguish in the heavens, the world and time;

These tears of blood that decorate the strings
Of my mute lyre, bright torch whose flame should light me;
These batterings of a heavy sea that smite me;
This scorpion living in my breast that stings;

These are love's garland, the wounded victim's bed
Where sleepless I dream that with me you remain
Among the ruins of the heart you bled.

I seek the heights of wisdom, but in vain:
Deep in the valley of your heart I'm fed
On hemlock, bitter knowledge bought with pain.

Translated by John Edmunds

WOUNDS OF LOVE

This light, this devouring fire.
This landscape around me, grey forever.
This pain on account of a single idea.
This anguish of sky, of the world, the hour.

This weeping of blood adorning
A lyre now stilled, torch of longing.
This weight of the sea's endless pounding.
This scorpion which makes my heart its dwelling.

They are love's wreaths, a sick man's bed,
Where I, sleepless, dream of your presence
Amongst the ruins of a heart half dead.

And though I seek the heights of prudence,
You offer me only the valley ahead,
And hemlock and longing for bitter experience.

Translated by Gwynne Edwards

STIGMATA OF LOVE

I'm swallowed by this light, by this fire,
By this grey landscape that's my crime,
By the endless pain of one idea,
By this anguish that's heaven, earth and time,

By the drip drip drip of blood's lament
Across rhythmless strings, thus kindling a flame,
By the maelstrom sea in its torment,
By the scorpion that is my heart's game;

These my garland of love, on which I lie wounded,
And where without dreams, I dream of your presence
Plumbing the depths that my lone heart has sounded.

And though I might crave the summits of prudence
In the vale of your passion such thoughts are dumbfounded
Laid low by hemlock and a lust that's dark science.

Translated by James Flint

WOUNDS OF LOVE

This light, this devouring fire,
This grey landscape encaging me.
This sorrow born of one idea.
This anguished sky, world and hour.

This grieving blood, this dandy art,
Lyre without a pulse now, lascivious torch.
This bull sea goring my flesh.
This scorpion thriving in my heart.

These are love's garland, bed of a wounded man
Where I lie sleepless, dreaming of you
In the ruins of my shattered soul.

And though I'd climb a peak of wisdom
Your heart's valley is a fearsome view
Of hemlock, bitter passion encompassing all.

Translated by Brendan Kennelly

THE WOUNDS OF LOVE

This brilliant light and fire which devour.
This grey expanse by which I am surrounded.
This sorrow which on one idea is founded.
This agony of heaven, world and hour.

These tears of blood with which is dressed
a lyre silent still, a torch of lust.
This sea of which I feel the thrust.
This scorpion which in my heart makes its nest.

They are love's garland, and the wounded's rest,
where, sleepless, I create you in a dream
amongst the ruins of my crushed-in breast;

and though I seek discretion's height supreme
your heart now gives me this vast vale oppressed
by passion's bitter skill, where hemlocks teem.

Translated by John Kerr

LOVE'S THORNS

This light, this fire that devours me,
this landscape that surrounds me,
this sorrow for one idea, and one idea only,
this anguish of sky, world, and extinguishing hours,

this cry of blood that adorns
this dying lyre, this restless pyre,
this ocean weight that sends me down,
this scorpion that ravages my heart,
seeking a place to rest,

aching garland of love, bed of the wounded,
where, sleepless, I dream of your presence
among the ruins of a barren heart.

And though I look for the height of prudence,
your heart only offers
a valley tendered with hemlock
and the bitter passion of science.

Translated by Caridad Svich

THE WOUNDS OF LOVE

This light, this unquenchable fire that consumes me,
This scalded black and smoking wasteland all round me,
This one burning obsession that confounds me,
These limits of earth, sky and time which entomb me,

These tears of molten blood which gild and untune me
And my lubricious lyre, a useless tool compounding me
To this barren shore where wave upon wave pounds me,
This scorpion nurtured in my chest which dooms me,

These are thorns in the crown of the love which in bed
I wear through sleepless nights as I dream that you rest,
Amidst the ruins of my heart, your lovely head,

And though wisdom dictates that aloofness is best,
The thought of you drags me down to the dark sea bed
With the bittersweet hemlock of love in my breast.

Translated by Colin Teevan

THE WOUNDS OF LOVE

This light, this fire that devours.
This grey landscape that surrounds me.
This obsession that torments me.
Anguish of heaven, world and hours.

This sobbing of the blood, draped round
a broken lyre, a slippery brand.
This sea which pounds me with its weight.
This scorpion dwelling in my heart.

Are all love's garland, and a bed,
where, without sleep, I try to rally,
and dream, amid the ruins, of your presence.

And though I seek the height of prudence
give me your heart, a spread-out valley
of hemlock and desire for bitter fruit.

Translated by Merryn Williams