| Rubén Darío -Lo fatal-
| jueves, 14 de septiembre de 2006
A René Pérez
Dichoso el árbol, que es apenas sensitivo,
y más la piedra dura porque esa ya no siente,
pues no hay dolor más grande que el dolor de ser vivo,
ni mayor pesadumbre que la vida consciente.
Ser y no saber nada, y ser sin rumbo cierto,
y el temor de haber sido y un futuro terror...
Y el espanto seguro de estar mañana muerto,
y sufrir por la vida y por la sombra y por
lo que no conocemos y apenas sospechamos,
y la carne que tienta con sus frescos racimos,
y la tumba que aguarda con sus fúnebres ramos,
¡y no saber adónde vamos,
ni de dónde venimos!...
For René Pérez
Happy the tree that can searcely feel,
and happier the hard stone because it does not feel at all,
for there is no greater grief than the grief of being alive,
and no greater affliction than conscious life.
To be and to know nothing, and to have no fixed course,
and the fear of what was and a terror of the future...
and the certain terror of being dead tomorrow,
and to suffer for life and the shadow (of death)
and for what we do not know and hardly suspect,
and for the flesh that tempts with its fresh grapes
and the tomb that waits with its funeral branches,
and not to know whither we go
or whence we come!...
Translated by J. M. Cohen
Etiquetas: Rubén Darío
|posted by Bishop @ 12:10
WHAT GETS YOU
How fortunate the tree that is scarcely aware,
and more so the hard stone because it no longer feels,
since there is no greater pain than the pain of living,
nor deeper sorrow than conscious life.
Being, and knowing nothing, and being without a true course,
and the fear of having been, and a future terror...
And the certain dread of being dead tomorrow,
and suffering because of life, and because of shadow, and because of
what we don't know and scarcely suspect,
and the flesh that tempts with its fresh-picked bunches,
and the tomb that awaits with its funeral bouquets,
and not knowing where we are going,
nor from where we have come....!
To Rene Perez
Blessed be the tree which is almost sensitive
And the stone even more so since it does not feel at all,
For there is no greater pain than the pain of being alive,
and larger distress than conscientious life.
To be and know nothing, to be without certainty,
And the fear of having been and a future terror…
And the sure horror of being dead tomorrow,
And to suffer in life, and in the shadows and for
What we ignore and only suspect,
And the flesh tempting with its fresh vines,
And the grave awaiting with its funeral flowers,
And to not know where we are going to,
Nor where we came from!
Translated by Danilo López
Happy the tree that scarcely feels a thing!
And happier still the nothing-feeling stone!
No pain exceeds the pain that living brings;
and grief attends the conscious life alone.
To be, yet not to know. No path ahead.
The fear of having been, and future fright...
The dread of knowing soon we will be dead
but only after suffering through the night
what we can’t grasp, nor hardly can we guess;
the flesh that tempts us like a grape or plum,
the tomb that waits for us with wreathes; and yes,
not knowing where we’re heading, even less
knowing whence we come.
Translated by Robert Schechter
Fortunate is the tree that is barely sensitive,
and even more the hard stone, for it does not feel,
as there isn't greater pain than that of being alive,
nor greater sadness than conscious life.
To be, and know nothing, and to be without purpose,
and the dread of having been and of a future terror ...
And the certain horror of being dead tomorrow,
and the fear for one's life and for the darkness,
and for that which we ignore and barely suspect,
and the flesh that tempts with its fresh bounty,
and the tomb that awaits with its funereal bouquets,
and the not knowing where we're going,
nor where we came from!...
Translated by José Wan Díaz
The tree is happy because it is scarcely sentient;
the hard rock is happier still, it feels nothing:
there is no pain as great as being alive,
no burden heavier than that of conscious life.
To be, and to know nothing, and to lack a way,
and the dread of having been, and future terrors...
And the sure terror of being dead tomorrow,
and to suffer all through life and through the darkness,
and through what we do not know and hardly suspect...
And the flesh that temps us with bunches of cool grapes,
and the tomb that awaits us with its funeral sprays,
and not to know where we go,
nor whence we came!...
Translated by Lysander Kemp
Fortunate is the barely sentient tree
And more so the hard stone that is without feeling
For there is no pain greater than that of living
And no greater sorrow than a life of knowing
To be and to know nothing, and to be without bearing
And the fear of a past and future doom
And tomorrow's certain death to be dreading
And to suffer for life and death's gloom
And for that which we do not know and can hardly divine
And the flesh with its tempting fruitful vines
And the beckoning crypt with funeral boughs
With no knowledge to where we're bound
Nor from whence we arrived