Subirats |
dijous, 25 de setembre de 2008 | 23:31h
The reddish shadow of a female wolf
Traducció amateur personal de l'Ombra rogenca de la lloba de Gerard Vergés, premi Carles Riba de 1981.
The reddish shadow of a female wolf
I’m named Romulus, a Roman
with tired, ironic, thoughtful gesture,
whose face is minted in coins.
Keen on Mahler, Mozart above all.
And the silence of the stars. I’m a thousand.
I’m not telling you the well-known story
nor describing the landscape where I lived:
that wide river, with flourished orange trees,
and, up beyond, the hard red land
olive groves and vineyards, the sky of summer
like a sharp blade of a sword.
And beside the sea, the one I love so much.
I know the land where I’ve lived. Look:
Baneful is water for ripen wheat,
baneful the gale for bushes,
baneful for me the infuriated Gods.
Sweet, instead, is arbutus for lambs,
sweet the slow rain for crops
and sweet for me your company is.
I met you still in your teens
with eyes like dark roses, like black
gardens in half-light (And I believed
black was the colour of beauty).
Nobody knows the old swell,
But the north wind hair mussed,
Hair like snakes. Serpents on the bosoms.
Hurt am I of splintered glasses
(glasses inside, but, love calls me).
Hurt am I of words and silences,
of torn clay, of chopped wood,
of powerful desolated forests.
The primitive gold was an injured flower
and those truly green forests
were cut down and are no more today.
(On getting new sorrows I agree to write verses.
I’d have so much loved you, so
slowly I’d have kissed your eyes and lips.
- My black eyes: not like a lightning.
- And my sweet lips: not like a sword).
Swords might come later.
Mugs of snow swept away the blooming,
Stones broke the mirrors of water,
Mist covered the face of the moon.
Everywhere pistols,
Everywhere scared tricorns
these and horses, at dawn,
along wet meadows and paths of darkness.
Green, red and white. Not British banners.
If horses move, clouds will as well.
And there is an ingenuous silence of poppies
- naive herbs – whereas in squares
young girls turn up, with bright eyes
and elastic jeans on a thin waistline.
Everything starts with a funny air,
Everything starts with an air of hope
As Green as the axes of woodcutters,
As Red as the soutanes of priests,
As White as the membranes of insects,
Though man is frailer than a rose.
The reddish shadow of a female wolf
I’m named Romulus, a Roman
with tired, ironic, thoughtful gesture,
whose face is minted in coins.
Keen on Mahler, Mozart above all.
And the silence of the stars. I’m a thousand.
I’m not telling you the well-known story
nor describing the landscape where I lived:
that wide river, with flourished orange trees,
and, up beyond, the hard red land
olive groves and vineyards, the sky of summer
like a sharp blade of a sword.
And beside the sea, the one I love so much.
I know the land where I’ve lived. Look:
Baneful is water for ripen wheat,
baneful the gale for bushes,
baneful for me the infuriated Gods.
Sweet, instead, is arbutus for lambs,
sweet the slow rain for crops
and sweet for me your company is.
I met you still in your teens
with eyes like dark roses, like black
gardens in half-light (And I believed
black was the colour of beauty).
Nobody knows the old swell,
But the north wind hair mussed,
Hair like snakes. Serpents on the bosoms.
Hurt am I of splintered glasses
(glasses inside, but, love calls me).
Hurt am I of words and silences,
of torn clay, of chopped wood,
of powerful desolated forests.
The primitive gold was an injured flower
and those truly green forests
were cut down and are no more today.
(On getting new sorrows I agree to write verses.
I’d have so much loved you, so
slowly I’d have kissed your eyes and lips.
- My black eyes: not like a lightning.
- And my sweet lips: not like a sword).
Swords might come later.
Mugs of snow swept away the blooming,
Stones broke the mirrors of water,
Mist covered the face of the moon.
Everywhere pistols,
Everywhere scared tricorns
these and horses, at dawn,
along wet meadows and paths of darkness.
Green, red and white. Not British banners.
If horses move, clouds will as well.
And there is an ingenuous silence of poppies
- naive herbs – whereas in squares
young girls turn up, with bright eyes
and elastic jeans on a thin waistline.
Everything starts with a funny air,
Everything starts with an air of hope
As Green as the axes of woodcutters,
As Red as the soutanes of priests,
As White as the membranes of insects,
Though man is frailer than a rose.
