Himno (J.L.B. trans E.A.C.)

Hymn
This morning
The incredible fragrance
Of the roses of Paradise hangs in the air.
On the banks of the Euphrates
Adam discovers the freshness of water.
A golden rain falls from the heavens:
It is the love of Zeus.
A fish leaps from the sea
And a man from Agrigento will remember
The existence and actions of this very fish.
In a cavern whose name will be called Altamira
An anonymous hand traces the curve
Of a bison’s back.
Slowly Virgil caresses
Silk brought by caravans and ships
Under the reign of Emperor Amarillo
The first nightingale sings in Hungary.
Jesus looks upon the profile of Cesar in a coin.
Pythagoras reveals to his fellow Greeks
That the form of time is that of a circle.
On an island in the ocean
Silver greyhounds pursue
The golden stags.
On an anvil the sword
That will be faithful to Sigurd comes into being.
Whitman sings in Manhattan.
Homer is born in seven cities.
A maiden completes the capture of
The white unicorn.
Everything of the past returns like a wave
And these ancient happenings rise up from the dead once more
All because she has kissed you.

Himno
Esta mañana
Hay en el aire la increíble fragancia
De las roas del Paraíso.
En la margen del Éufrates
Adán descubre la frescura del agua.
Una lluvia de oro cae del cielo;
Es el amor de Zeus.
Salta del mar un pez
Y un hombre de Agrigento recordará
Haber sido ese pez.
En la caverna cuyo nombre será Altamira
Una mano sin cara traza la curva
De un lomo de bisonte.
La lenta mano de Virgilio acaricia
La seda que trajeron
Del reino del Emperador Amarillo
Las caravanas y las naves.
El primer ruiseñor canta en Hungría.
Jesús ve en la moneda el perfil de César.
Pitágoras revela a sus griegos
Que la forma del tiempo es la del círculo.
En una isla del Océano
Los lebreles de plata persiguen
A los ciervos de oro.
En un yunque forjan la espada
Que será fiel a Sigurd.
Whitman canta en Manhattan.
Homero nace en siete ciudades.
Una doncella acaba de apresar
Al unicornio blanco.
Todo el pasado vuelve como una ola
Y esas antiguas cosas recuren
Porque una mujer te ha besado.

Afterglow (J.L.B., trans. E.A.C.)

It is always moving,
the indigent and rustic decline,
but more touching always
is that bright and final desperation
that rusts the plain when the sun has set.
It pains us to bear this inflexible and clear light,
this hallucination that asserts in space
the unanimous fear of darkness
and that like a blow, ceases when we notice its fallacy
like the ending of dreams
when we realize we are dreaming.

Nostalgia del Presente (J.L.B., trans. E.A.C.)

Present Nostalgia

At that precise moment
the man said:
What wouldn't I give for the happiness
of being by your side in Iceland
beneath a great motionless day,
and to share this moment with you
the way I would music or the flavor of a fruit.
And at that moment
the man was with her
and together they were in Iceland.

Nostalgia del Presente

En aquel preciso momento el hombre se dijo:
Que no daria yo por la dicha
de estar a tu lado en Islandia
bajo el gran dia inmovil
y de compartir el ahora
como se comparte la musica
o el sabor de una fruta.
En aquel preciso momento
el hombre estaba junto a ella en Islandia.

La Recoleta (E.A.C., trans. E.A.C.)

La Recoleta
Un tercer tiempo entrado
el sepulcro y lo que queda del alma
con visión e intención en la infinitude
no pueden alcanzarme.

Las primeras visitas a esta plaza codiciada
que contiene los restos de los benditos
con un orgullo convincente durante sus vidas
me encontraron escundrinando con atención absorta
entre rejas trabajado
mirando la muerte soñando
con suavidad inhala, exhala
segundos del tiempo.

Pero ahora, no.
Ahora lo que dos tiempos me facinaron--
dos tiempos insitaron murmullando a los que no pueden responder--
es nada mas que un lugar entierro de Quixotes mertos,
caras que se dieron vuelta a un cielo vestido en molins de vientos.

Andar entre caminos gris y blanco,
no me distrerán con sus cuentos pasados;
soy la unica fantasma
sin efecto de la realidad macabra,
la perdida inminente que me envuelve.
Hoy mi pensamineto esta captado
el cuerpo y el alma de uno más dificil de encontrarse
que los que están retrasandose
entre esas tablas viejas
y paredes de mármol.

La Recoleta

A third time entered,
The seulcher and remains of souls
with their visions and intentions rested upon infinity
cannot reach me.

The first two visits to this coveted square
housing the remains of those blessed
with a convincing self-importance during their lifetime
found me peering with rapt attention
through twisted iron gates,
watching slumbering death
softly inhale, exhale
the seconds of time.

But not now.
Now what twice over intrigued--
twice over prompted whispering to those who cannot reply--
is nothing more than a burial ground of dead Quixotes,
decaying faces turned toward a windmill clad sky.

Walking through lanes of gray and white,
I will not be distracted by their stories of the past;
I am the lone ghost
unaffected by the macabre reality,
the impending loss that surrounds.
Thoday thoughts are captured by
the body and soul of one more elusive
than those lingering betwixt these aged boards
and marble walls.

El Sur (J.L.B., trans. E.A.C.)

The South

From one of your patios the
ancient stars were seen,
from the shadowy bank these
dispersed lights were seen,
ones that my ignorance hadn't learned to name
or arrange in constallations,
the circle of water was sensed
in the secret well,
the scent of jasmin and honeysuckle,
the silence of the sleeping bird,
the arch of the hallway, humidity
--perhaps these things are the poem.

El Sur

Desde uno de tus patios haver mirado
las antiguas estrellas,
desde el banco de sombra haber mirado
esas luces dispersas,
que mi ignorancia no ha aprendido a nombrar
ni a ordenar en constelaciones,
haber sentido el círculo del agua
en el screto aljibe,
el olor de jazmín y la madreselva,
el silencio del pajaro dormido,
el arco del zaguán, la humedad
--esas cosas, acaso, son el poema.