LA RECOLETA

Convencidos de caducidad

por tantas nobles certidumbres del polvo,

nos demoramos y bajamos la voz

entre las lentas filas de panteones,

cuya retórica de sombra y de mármol

promete o prefigura la deseable

dignidad de haber muerto.

Bellos son los sepulcros,

el desnudo latín y las trabadas fechas fatales,

la conjunción del mármol y de la flor

y las plazuelas con frescura de patio

y los muchos ayeres de la historia

hoy detenida y única.

Equivocamos esa paz con la muerte

y creemos anhelar nuestro fin

y anhelamos el sue?o y la indiferencia.

Vibrante en las espadas y en la pasión

y dormida en la hiedra,

sólo la vida existe.

El espacio y el tiempo son formas suyas,

son instrumentos mágicos del alma,

y cuando ésta se apague,

se apagarán con ella el espacio, el tiempo y la muerte,

como al cesar la luz

caduca el simulacro de los espejos

que ya la tarde fue apagando.

Sombra benigna de los árboles,

viento con pájaros que sobre las ramas ondea,

alma que se dispersa en otras almas,

fuera un milagro que alguna vez dejaran de ser,

milagro incomprensible,

Convinced of our mortality

by so many confirmations of final dust,

we drop our voices, our steps grow slow

between the slow rows of family crypts,

whose rhetoric of shadow and stone

promises or prefigures the coveted

dignity of being dead.

There is beauty in the tombs,

the spare Latin and link of fatal dates,

the conjunction of marble and flowers,

the broad intersections, as cool as patios,

and all our yesterdays of a history

now stilled and unique.

We mistake this peace for death,

believing we yearn for our end

when we yearn for sleep and oblivion.

Vibrant in swords and in passion,

asleep in ivy,

only life is real.

Space and time are its shapes,

the mind’s magical modes,

and when life burns out,

space, time, and death go out with it,

as when light fails

the image in the mirror fails,

already grown dim in the dusk.

Kindly shade of the trees,

breeze rich with birds rocking the branches,

my soul losing itself in other souls—

only a wonder could undo their existence,

a wonder not to be understood,

aunque su imaginaria repetición

infame con horror nuestros días.

Estas cosas pensé en la Recoleta,

en el lugar de mi ceniza.

THE RECOLETA

Convinced of our mortality

by so many confirmations of final dust,

we drop our voices, our steps grow slow

between the slow rows of family crypts,

whose rhetoric of shadow and stone

promises or prefigures the coveted

dignity of being dead.

There is beauty in the tombs,

the spare Latin and link of fatal dates,

the conjunction of marble and flowers,

the broad intersections, as cool as patios,

and all our yesterdays of a history

now stilled and unique.

We mistake this peace for death,

believing we yearn for our end

when we yearn for sleep and oblivion.

Vibrant in swords and in passion,

asleep in ivy,

only life is real.

Space and time are its shapes,

the mind’s magical modes,

and when life burns out,

space, time, and death go out with it,

as when light fails

the image in the mirror fails,

already grown dim in the dusk.

Kindly shade of the trees,

breeze rich with birds rocking the branches,

my soul losing itself in other souls—

only a wonder could undo their existence,

a wonder not to be understood,

however much its imagined recurrence

however much its imagined recurrence

taints our days with dread.

These thoughts came to me in the Recoleta,

in the place where my ashes will He.

[tr Norman Thomas di Giovanni]

里科萊塔

這么多昂貴的證據(jù)，塵土

使我們相信難免一死，

我們放慢腳步，壓低嗓音

走過一列列緩慢的墓碑

它們陰影與大理石的修辭學(xué)

允諾或預(yù)示了那倍受向往的

成為死者的光榮。

蒼蒼的墳?zāi)故敲赖模?/p>

貧乏的拉丁語和末日的鎖環(huán)，

大理石與花朵的會合點(diǎn)，

涼爽如庭院的空地

和歷史的數(shù)不清的昨天

如今是凝滯的，惟一的。

我們將這寧靜混同于死亡

并且相信我們渴望結(jié)束自己

盡管只是渴望睡夢與冷漠。

在刀與激情中震顫，

在常春藤中沉睡，

惟有生命存在，

空間與時間是它的輪廓，

是心靈的魔法的工具，

而當(dāng)生命熄滅，

空間，時間，死亡隨之而去，

就像光明終止

鏡中的幻影也就消逝

它早已在黃昏黯然失色。

樹木溫柔的陰影，

載送飛鳥，搖蕩枝條的微風(fēng)，

迷失于別的靈魂的靈魂，

有時候它們停止存在就是一個奇跡，

不可思議的奇跡，

盡管它臆想中的再生

以恐怖玷污了我們的日子。

我在里科萊塔把這一切沉思，

在我的灰燼安放的地方。

[tr 陳東飚]

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