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Poemas en Inglés es un blog que pretende acercar poemas de lengua inglesa al castellano |
| Sentences |
"Por principio, toda traducción es buena. En cualquier caso, pasa con ellas lo que con las mujeres: de alguna manera son necesarias, aunque no todas son perfectas" Augusto Monterroso -La palabra mágica-
"Es imposible traducir la poesía. ¿Acaso se puede traducir la música?" Voltaire
"Translating poetry is like making jewelry. Every word counts, and each sparkles with so many facets. Translating prose is like sculpting: get the shape and the lines right, then polish the seams later." James Nolan
"La traducción destroza el espíritu del idioma" Federico García Lorca |
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| Jorge Luis Borges -Adán es tu ceniza- |
| viernes, 15 de diciembre de 2006 |
Adán es tu ceniza
La espada morirá como el racimo.
El cristal no es más frágil que la roca.
Las cosas son su porvenir de polvo.
El hierro es el orín.
La voz, el eco. Adán, el joven padre, es tu ceniza.
El último jardín será el primero.
El ruiseñor y Píndaro son voces
La aurora es el reflejo del ocaso.
El micenio, la máscara de oro.
El alto muro, la ultrajada ruina.
Urquiza, lo que dejan los puñales.
El rostro que se mira en el espejo
No es el de ayer. La noche lo ha gastado.
El delicado tiempo nos modela.
Qué dicha ser el agua invulnerable
Que corre en la parábola de Heráclito
O el intrincado fuego, pero ahora,
En este largo día que no pasa,
Me siento duradero y desvalido.
Adam is your ashes
The sword will die just like the ripening cluster.
The glass is no more fragile than the rock.
All things are their own prophecy of dust.
Iron is rust. The voice, already an echo.
Adam, the youthful father, is your ashes.
The final garden will also be the first.
The nightingale and Pindar both are voices.
The dawn is a reflection of the sunset.
The Mycenaean, his burial mask of gold.
The highest wall, the humiliated ruin.
Urquiza, he whom daggers left behind.
The face that looks upon itself in the mirror
Is not the face of yesterday. The night
Has spent it. Delicate time has molded us.
What joy to be the invulnerable water
That ran assuredly through the parable
Of Heraclitus, or the intricate fire,
But now, on this long day that doesn't end,
I feel irrevocable and alone.Etiquetas: J. L. Borges |
posted by Bishop @ 11:50  |
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| 1 Comments: |
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ADAM IS YOUR ASHES
The sword will die like the raceme.
Glass is not more fragile than rock.
Things are their future of dust.
Iron is rust. Voice, echo.
Adam, young father, is your ashes.
The last garden will be the first.
The nightingale and Pindar are voices.
Dawn is the reflection of sundown.
The Mycenæan, the golden mask.
The high wall, the outraged ruin.
Urquiza, the one left by daggers.
The face that sees itself in the mirror
Is not that of yesterday. Night has wasted it.
Delicate time shapes us.
What hap to be the invulnerable water
That flows in Herclitus' parable
Or intricate fire, but now,
In this long neverending day,
I feel durable and destitute.
Translated by Christopher Mulrooney
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ADAM IS YOUR ASHES
The sword will die like the raceme.
Glass is not more fragile than rock.
Things are their future of dust.
Iron is rust. Voice, echo.
Adam, young father, is your ashes.
The last garden will be the first.
The nightingale and Pindar are voices.
Dawn is the reflection of sundown.
The Mycenæan, the golden mask.
The high wall, the outraged ruin.
Urquiza, the one left by daggers.
The face that sees itself in the mirror
Is not that of yesterday. Night has wasted it.
Delicate time shapes us.
What hap to be the invulnerable water
That flows in Herclitus' parable
Or intricate fire, but now,
In this long neverending day,
I feel durable and destitute.
Translated by Christopher Mulrooney