Me escribe William L. Slusher de Tacoma, Washington, y me remite una traducción del poema que dimos por aquí la noche antes de Nochebuena.
Me cuenta que estudió leyes en la Florida, donde se graduó en el 77 y que gusta de traducir poemas del español al inglés y viceversa para mejorar el conocimiento de nuestro idioma.
He solicitado su autorización para poner por aquí la versión inglesa de mi poema.
Me maravilla que alguien le haya podido dedicar este tiempo a un texto mío al otro lado del océano y sin conocernos de nada, ni siquiera por FB.
Pero ya no hay océanos.
Mil gracias William.
LUX MUNDI (LIGHT OF THE WORLD)
Behold the lights of December shine:
The live coals where burn the fruits of autumn
With their long scarf of smoke and coals,
The altarpieces of commercial neon
And oriental mosaic of flakes of snow
That fall from the burning heavens.
We come from the shade and to the shadows we go
With little light.
And although the red torch of the winter fir
Scarcely illuminates the darkness
Of this cavern of gold and sorrow
We follow the road of the night of the soul.
We advance by feeling through the haze
Agitating the tea of anguish and jubilation,
The live coals where burn the fruits of autumn
With their long scarf of smoke and coals,
The altarpieces of commercial neon
And oriental mosaic of flakes of snow
That fall from the burning heavens.
We come from the shade and to the shadows we go
With little light.
And although the red torch of the winter fir
Scarcely illuminates the darkness
Of this cavern of gold and sorrow
We follow the road of the night of the soul.
We advance by feeling through the haze
Agitating the tea of anguish and jubilation,
--EX ORIENTE LUX-- (--FROM THE EAST LIGHT--)
But nothing serves the pallid wig,
The worn-out yellow of the encyclopedias
Splashes of blood and reason.
The sun dies also guillotined
In the thick undergrowth of the garden
And an axe-stroke of the moon cuts the hedge of boxwood.
Beneath the red mistletoe of the Druid
We still continue searching for the key of the entrance hall,
The coal of the flame that makes warm the milk,
And the profound hoarfrost that burns the heart,
But nothing and no one responds to the cry
Of the solitary dog that bays in the thicket.
So shine the lights of December,
There low candles that throb beneath the glass,
Those electrical stars and their paucity of light
That are the candelabrum of death.
But have no fear if something breaks into the night
And strikes three times the knocker of the door
In the high semidarkness of the thistle and the nettle,
Saturated with blood and leaves of holly.
This will be the agreed signal
A star of flesh born from the abyss.
The worn-out yellow of the encyclopedias
Splashes of blood and reason.
The sun dies also guillotined
In the thick undergrowth of the garden
And an axe-stroke of the moon cuts the hedge of boxwood.
Beneath the red mistletoe of the Druid
We still continue searching for the key of the entrance hall,
The coal of the flame that makes warm the milk,
And the profound hoarfrost that burns the heart,
But nothing and no one responds to the cry
Of the solitary dog that bays in the thicket.
So shine the lights of December,
There low candles that throb beneath the glass,
Those electrical stars and their paucity of light
That are the candelabrum of death.
But have no fear if something breaks into the night
And strikes three times the knocker of the door
In the high semidarkness of the thistle and the nettle,
Saturated with blood and leaves of holly.
This will be the agreed signal
A star of flesh born from the abyss.
Jose Maria Jurado, 23 diciembre 2017
Traducción de W. L. Slusser (Enero, 2018 Tacoma, Washington)
No hay comentarios:
Publicar un comentario