A BALLADE OF SUICIDE
The gallows in my garden, people say,
Is new and neat and adequately tall;
I tie the noose on in a knowing way
As one that knots his necktie for a ball;
But just as all the neighbours—on the wall—
Are drawing a long breath to shout "Hurray!"
The strangest whim has seized me. . . . After all
I think I will not hang myself to-day.
To-morrow is the time I get my pay—
My uncle's sword is hanging in the hall—
I see a little cloud all pink and grey—
Perhaps the rector's mother will not call—
I fancy that I heard from Mr. Gall
That mushrooms could be cooked another way—
I never read the works of Juvenal—
I think I will not hang myself to-day.
The world will have another washing-day;
The decadents decay; the pedants pall;
And H.G. Wells has found that children play,
And Bernard Shaw discovered that they squall,
Rationalists are growing rational—
And through thick woods one finds a stream astray
So secret that the very sky seems small—
I think I will not hang myself to-day.
ENVOI
Prince, I can hear the trumpet of Germinal,
The tumbrils toiling up the terrible way;
Even to-day your royal head may fall,
I think I will not hang myself to-day
The gallows in my garden, people say,
Is new and neat and adequately tall;
I tie the noose on in a knowing way
As one that knots his necktie for a ball;
But just as all the neighbours—on the wall—
Are drawing a long breath to shout "Hurray!"
The strangest whim has seized me. . . . After all
I think I will not hang myself to-day.
To-morrow is the time I get my pay—
My uncle's sword is hanging in the hall—
I see a little cloud all pink and grey—
Perhaps the rector's mother will not call—
I fancy that I heard from Mr. Gall
That mushrooms could be cooked another way—
I never read the works of Juvenal—
I think I will not hang myself to-day.
The world will have another washing-day;
The decadents decay; the pedants pall;
And H.G. Wells has found that children play,
And Bernard Shaw discovered that they squall,
Rationalists are growing rational—
And through thick woods one finds a stream astray
So secret that the very sky seems small—
I think I will not hang myself to-day.
ENVOI
Prince, I can hear the trumpet of Germinal,
The tumbrils toiling up the terrible way;
Even to-day your royal head may fall,
I think I will not hang myself to-day
BALADA DEL SUICIDIO
En mi jardín la horca, según dice la gente,
Es nueva, está bien hecha y su altura es suficiente;
Con gesto consumado mi mano el lazo ata
Como quien para un baile se anuda la corbata;
Pero cuando en el muro lindero ya son ciento
Los que aprestan el "¡Hurra!" reteniendo el aliento,
Me entra un extraño antojo, puesto que, bien mirado,
Creo que, lo que es hoy, no me verán colgado.
Mañana es justo el día en que cobro mi paga,
Veo una nube rosa y gris que en el cielo vaga,
La espada de mi tío orna el recibidor,
A lo mejor NO viene la madre del rector,
Mr. Gall, me parece, ha dicho que hay recetas
Que explican otro modo de preparar las setas,
De Juvenal las obras aún no he disfrutado,
Creo que, lo que es hoy, no me verán colgado.
Tendrá el mundo otro día de enjuague general;
Decadentes y fatuos declinan por igual;
De que los niños juegan Mr. Wells se enteró,
Y que berrean lo descubrió Bernard Shaw;
Ya los racionalistas más racionalmente
Piensan, y en la espesura se esconde una corriente,
Tan secreta que en ella tiene al cielo encerrado,
Creo que, lo que es hoy, no me verán colgado.
ENVÍO
Príncipe, la trompeta oigo de Germinal,
Las carretas que avanzan por la senda fatal;
Y aunque hoy puedas ser, señor, decapitado,
Creo que, lo que es hoy, no me verán colgado.
Versión de Carlos Cámara
