Aquí
descanso yo: dice “Alfonsina”
El
epitafio es claro al que se inclina.
Aquí
descanso yo, y en este pozo
Pues que
no siento, me solazo y gozo.
Los
turbios ojos muertos ya no giran,
Los
labios, desgranados, no suspiran.
Duermo mi
sueño eterno a pierna suelta;
Me llaman
y no quiero darme vuelta.
Tengo la
tierra encima y no la siento,
Llega el
invierno y no me enfría el viento.
El verano
mis sueños no madura,
La
primavera el pulso no me apura.
El
corazón no tiembla, salta o late,
Fuera
estoy de la línea de combate.
¿Qué dice
el ave aquella, caminante?
Tradúceme
su canto perturbante:
“Nace la
luna nueva, el mar perfuma,
Los
cuerpos bellos báñanse de espuma.
Va junto al
mar un hombre que en la boca
Lleva una
abeja libadora y loca:
Bajo la
blanca tela el torso quiere
El otro
torso que palpita y muere.
Los
marineros sueñan en las proas,
Cantan
muchachas desde las canoas.
Zarpan los
buques y en sus claras cuevas
Los
hombres parten hacia tierras nuevas.
La mujer
que en el suelo está dormida
Y en su
epitafio ríe de la vida,
Como es
mujer grabó en su sepultura
Una
mentira aún: la de su hartura”.
EPITAPH FOR MY TOMB
Here I
rest: clearly then the epitaph says
“Alfonsina”
to him whose look here strays.
Here I
rest, and since my feelings no longer can compel,
I rejoice
and am pleased, here in this well.
The
troubled eyes are quite still and shiftless,
No sighs
can come from the lips which are fruitless.
In my
eternal dream I sleep in the beyond,
While to
those who call me, I do not respond.
Above is
the soil whose weight I do not bear,
And
winter comes whose grief I do not share.
My dreams
are not fulfilled by alchemy of summer,
My pulse
does not quicken at spring’s urgent whisper.
The heart
does not tremble and is thus unmoved,
Since
from the combat and arena I am now removed.
What does
the bird say, traveller among throng?
Translate,
if you can, its disturbing song:
“The new
moon is born, and the sea gives perfume,
The
bodies which are beautiful bathe in the spume.
A man is
walking by the murmuring sea;
In his
mouth he carries a crazy bee.
The body
yearns beneath white robe and guise
For the
other body that stirs and then dies.
In
listless prows the sailors are dreaming,
In
gliding canoes the girls are now singing.
By
portholes and in cabins some await new lands
As boats
weigh anchor near busy strands.
So this
the woman who in the soil is sleeping,
And this
her epitaph which at life is laughing.
But woman
she was, so on her tomb she inscribed
Yet one
more lie: that weary of life she died”.
Translated
by HUGO MANNING
Argentine Anthology of Modern Verse
Buenos
Aires, 1942
