Los dictadores
Ha quedado un olor entre los cañaverales;
una mezcla de sangre y cuerpo, un penetrante
pétalo nauseabundo.
Entre los cocoteros las tumbas están llenas
de huesos demolidos, de estertores callados.
El delicado sátrapa conversa
con copas, cuellos y cordones de oro.
El pequeño palacio brilla como un reloj
y las rápidas risas enguantadas
atraviesan a veces los pasillos
y se reúnen a las voces muertas
y a las bocas azules frescamente enterradas.
El llanto está escondido como una planta
cuya semilla cae sin cesar sobre el suelo
y hace crecer sin luz sus grandes hojas ciegas.
El odio se ha formado escama a escama,
golpe a golpe, en el agua terrible del pantano,
con un hocico lleno de légamo y silencio.
The dictators
A smell lingered over the canefields;
a penetrating blend of blood and bodies,
of sickening flower petals.
The tombs between the coco palms are stuffed
with ruined bones, with stifled death-rattles.
The fastidious satrap holds converse
with golden goblets, collars, and braid.
The little palace gleams like a pocketwatch
and the rapid, gloved laughter
traverses the corridors from time to time
encountering the dead voices
and the blue mouths, freshly buried.
The lament is concealed like a plant
whose seed falls ceaselessly over the soil
and whose great blind leaves grow without light.
The hatred has grown from height to height,
Blow by blow, in the horrible water of the swamp,
With a snout full of silence and of silt.
Reblogged this on poetry from the frontera and commented:
From Miriam’s Well
Thank you Donna. I hope we meet again some time!
I adore Neruda. His words are like magic…and that’s the translation! I can’t imagine the power in the original. Thanks for posting this.
You are very welcome!
Thank you for printing this. It’s important to remember.
So true–thank you.