Federico García Lorca -San Miguel (Granada)- |
martes, 13 de septiembre de 2005 |
San Miguel (Granada)
Federico Garcia Lorca Se ven desde las barandas, por el monte, monte, monte, mulos y sombras de mulos cargados de girasoles. Sus ojos en las umbrías se empañan de inmensa noche. En los recodos del aire cruje la aurora salobre. Un cielo de mulos blancos cierra sus ojos de azogue dando a la quieta penumbra un final de corazones. Y el agua se pone fría para que nadie la toque. Agua loca y descubierta por el monte, monte, monte.
San Miguel lleno de encajes en la alcoba de su torre, enseña sus bellos muslos ceñidos por los faroles. Arcángel domesticado en el gesto de las doce, finge una cólera dulce de plumas y ruiseñores. San Miguel canta en los vidrios; efebo de tres mil noches, fragante de agua colonia y lejano de las flores.
El mar baila por la playa, un poema de balcones. Las villas de la luna pierden juncos, ganan voces. Vienen manolas comiendo semillas de girasoles, los culos grandes y ocultos como planetas de cobre. Vienen altos caballeros y damas de triste porte, morenas por la nostalgia de un ayer de ruiseñores. Y el obispo de Manila, ciego de azafrán y pobre, dice misa con dos filos para mujeres y hombres
San Miguel se estaba quieto en la alcoba de su torre, con las enaguas cuajadas de espejitos y entredoses. San Miguel, rey de los globos y de los números nones, en el primor berberisco de gritos y miradores.
Saint Michael (Granada)
Mules and shadows of mules on the dunes, the dunes, the dunes, can see them from the veranda carrying sunflower seeds. Their eyes in dark places cloud over with the deep night. The river bends in the breeze of the rustling salty dawn. A sky of white mules closes its lightning-filled eyes wishing the cool penumbra a fond goodbye. And the water turns frigid so no one will touch it. Wild, inglorious water on the dunes, the dunes, the dunes.
Saint Michael, dressed in lace slows his lovely thighs in the alcove above his tower, draped in lantern light. A housebroken archangel pointing to 12 o'clock feigns a displeasure of feathers and nightingales, An efebo, 3 thousand nights old, fragrant with cologne, yet far from any flower.
The sea on the beach dances its poem of verandas. The shores of the moon gain voices and lose reeds. Strumpets in bright costumes eating sunflower seeds, hide their huge buttocks like copper worlds. Gentlemen come by as well, and ladies of downcast smiles, dusky with nostalgia all for a past full of nightingales. The Bishop of Manila, saffron blind and poor, says a mass with a double-edge for men and women.
Saint Michael, resting calmly in the alcove of his tower, his petticoats frozen in sequins and lace. Saint Michael, king of all the balloons, of odd numbers, dressed with Berber grace of shouts and watchtowers.
Translated by Zachary Jean ChartkoffEtiquetas: Federico García Lorca |
posted by Bishop @ 13:30 |
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Saint Michael (Granada) They are seen from the verandahs on the mountain, mountain, mountain, mules and mules’ shadows weighed down with sunflowers. Their eyes in the shadows are dulled by immense night. Salt-laden dawn rustles in the corners of the breeze. A sky of white mules closes its reflective eyes, granting the quiet half-light a heart-filled ending. And the water turns cold so no-one touches it. Water maddened and exposed on the mountain, mountain, mountain. Saint Michael, covered in lace, shows his lovely thighs, in his tower room, encircled by lanterns. The Archangel, domesticated, in the twelve-o-clock gesture, pretends to a sweet anger of plumage and nightingales. Saint Michael sings in the glass, effeminate one, of three thousand nights, fragrant with eau de cologne, and far from the flowers.
Translated by A. S. Kline
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Saint Michael (Granada)
They are seen from the verandahs
on the mountain, mountain, mountain,
mules and mules’ shadows
weighed down with sunflowers.
Their eyes in the shadows
are dulled by immense night.
Salt-laden dawn rustles
in the corners of the breeze.
A sky of white mules
closes its reflective eyes,
granting the quiet half-light
a heart-filled ending.
And the water turns cold
so no-one touches it.
Water maddened and exposed
on the mountain, mountain, mountain.
Saint Michael, covered in lace,
shows his lovely thighs,
in his tower room,
encircled by lanterns.
The Archangel, domesticated,
in the twelve-o-clock gesture,
pretends to a sweet anger
of plumage and nightingales.
Saint Michael sings in the glass,
effeminate one, of three thousand nights,
fragrant with eau de cologne,
and far from the flowers.
Translated by A. S. Kline