| Federico García Lorca -Llanto por Ignacio Sánchez Mejías- 4. Alma ausente- |
| lunes, 12 de septiembre de 2005 |
Llanto por Ignacio Sánchez Mejías
4. Alma ausente
No te conoce el toro ni la higuera,
ni caballos ni hormigas de tu casa.
No te conoce el niño ni la tarde
porque te has muerto para siempre.
No te conoce el lomo de la piedra,
ni el raso negro donde te destrozas.
No te conoce tu recuerdo mudo
porque te has muerto para siempre.
El otoño vendrá con caracolas,
uva de niebla y montes agrupados,
pero nadie querrá mirar tus ojos
porque te has muerto para siempre.
Porque te has muerto para siempre,
como todos los muertos de la Tierra,
como todos los muertos que se olvidan
en un montón de perros apagados.
No te conoce nadie. No. Pero yo te canto.
Yo canto para luego tu perfil y tu gracia.
La madurez insigne de tu conocimiento.
Tu apetencia de muerte y el gusto de su boca.
La tristeza que tuvo tu valiente alegría.
Tardará mucho tiempo en nacer, si es que nace,
un andaluz tan claro, tan rico de aventura
Yo canto su elegancia con palabras que gimen
y recuerdo una brisa triste por los olivos.
Lament for Ignacio Sánchez Mejías
4. Absent soul
The bull does not know you, nor the fig tree,
nor the horses, nor the ants in your own house.
The child and the afternoon do not know you
because you have dead forever.
The shoulder of the stone does not know you
nor the black silk, where you are shuttered.
Your silent memory does not know you
because you have died forever
The autumn will come with small white snails,
misty grapes and clustered hills,
but no one will look into your eyes
because you have died forever.
Because you have died for ever,
like all the dead of the earth,
like all the dead who are forgotten
in a heap of lifeless dogs.
Nobady knows you. No. But I sing of you.
For posterity I sing of your profile and grace.
Of the signal maturity of your understanding.
Of your appetite for death and the taste of its mouth.
Of the sadness of your once valiant gaiety.
It will be a long time, if ever, before there is born
an Andalusian so true, so rich in adventure.
I sing of his elegance with words that groan,
and I remember a sad breeze through the olive trees.Etiquetas: Federico García Lorca |
posted by Bishop @ 11:00  |
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Lament for Ignacio Sánchez Mejías
4. The Soul Absent
Neither the bull nor the fig tree know you,
nor your horses, nor the ants under your floor.
Neither the child nor the evening know you,
because you have died forever.
The spine of rock does not know you,
nor the black satin where you are ruined,
Your mute remembrance does not know you,
because you have died forever.
Autumn will come with its snails,
grapes in mist, and clustered mountains,
but no one will want to gaze in your eyes,
because you have died forever.
Because you have died forever,
like all the dead of the Earth,
like all the dead forgotten
in a pile of lifeless curs.
No one knows you. No. But I sing of you.
I sing for others your profile and grace.
The famed ripeness of your understanding.
Your appetite for death, pleasure in its savour.
The sadness your valiant gaiety contained.
Not for a long time, if ever, will there be born,
an Andalusian so brilliant, so rich in adventure.
I sing his elegance in words that moan,
and remember a sad breeze through the olive-trees.
Translated by A. S. Kline
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Lament for Ignacio Sánchez Mejías
IV
The Absent Soul
It does not know you, the bull, nor the fig tree.
Horses do not, nor the ants of your house.
Neither the child nor the evening knows you
because you are dead, always.
It does not know you, the stony hillside,
nor the black silk where you decay.
It does not know you, your mute memory,
because you are dead, always.
The autumn will come with snails,
mist-fleshed grapes and gathered mountains,
but no one will want to meet your eyes
because you are dead, always.
Because you are dead always,
like all the dead of the earth,
like all the dead forgotten
in heaps of quenched dogs,
no one knows you. No one. But I sing you.
I sing for the future of your profile and grace,
the sage direction of your mind,
your urge for death and the taste of its mouth,
the sadness that pierced your joyful courage.
Much time will pass before there is again
an Andalusian so pure, so rich with adventure.
I sing his elegance with words that moan,
recalling a sad breeze among olive branches.
Translated by Brian Cole
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LAMENT FOR IGNACIO SANCHEZ MEJÍAS
IV
Absent Soul
The bull does not know you, nor the fig tree,
nor the horses nor the ants of your house.
The child does not know you, nor does the afternoon,
because you have died for ever.
Translated by Merryn Williams
The back of the stone slab does not know you,
nor the black satin shroud in which you crumble.
Your silent remembrance does not know you
because you have died for ever.
The autumn will come, shepherds blowing conch-shells,
misty grapes, and clusters of hills,
but no one will want to look into your eyes
because you have died for ever.
Because you have died for ever,
like all of the dead of this earth,
like all the dead who are forgotten
in a heap of uncared-for dogs.
Nobody knows you. No. But I sing of you.
I sing of your grace for posterity.
Your profile, your maturity of thought.
Your love for death and the taste of his mouth.
The sadness in your light-hearted courage.
Not for a long time will be born, if at all,
an Andalucian so noble.
I sing of his elegance in words that moan,
and remember a sad breeze among the olives.
Translated by Merryn Williams
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LAMENT FOR IGNACIO SANCHEZ MEJÍAS
IV
The Absent Soul
It does not know you, the bull, nor the fig tree.
Horses do not, nor the ants of your house.
Neither the child nor the evening knows you
because you are dead, always.
It does not know you, the stony hillside,
nor the black silk where you decay.
It does not know you, your mute memory,
because you are dead, always.
The autumn will come with snails,
mist-fleshed grapes and gathered mountains,
but no one will want to meet your eyes
because you are dead, always.
Because you are dead always,
like all the dead of the earth,
like all the dead forgotten
in heaps of quenched dogs,
no one knows you. No one. But I sing you.
I sing for the future of your profile and grace,
the sage direction of your mind,
your urge for death and the taste of its mouth,
the sadness that pierced your joyful courage.
Much time will pass before there is again
an Andalusian so pure, so rich with adventure.
I sing his elegance with words that moan,
recalling a sad breeze among olive branches.
Translated by Mark Leech
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Lament for Ignacio Sánchez Mejías
4. The Soul Absent
Neither the bull nor the fig tree know you,
nor your horses, nor the ants under your floor.
Neither the child nor the evening know you,
because you have died forever.
The spine of rock does not know you,
nor the black satin where you are ruined,
Your mute remembrance does not know you,
because you have died forever.
Autumn will come with its snails,
grapes in mist, and clustered mountains,
but no one will want to gaze in your eyes,
because you have died forever.
Because you have died forever,
like all the dead of the Earth,
like all the dead forgotten
in a pile of lifeless curs.
No one knows you. No. But I sing of you.
I sing for others your profile and grace.
The famed ripeness of your understanding.
Your appetite for death, pleasure in its savour.
The sadness your valiant gaiety contained.
Not for a long time, if ever, will there be born,
an Andalusian so brilliant, so rich in adventure.
I sing his elegance in words that moan,
and remember a sad breeze through the olive-trees.
Translated by A. S. Kline