MATÍ D'HIVERNWINTER MORNING
Josep Carnertrans. Louis J. Rodrigues (from Catalan)
En mon jardi hi ha un poc de neu sota un massís
de violetes. Dolç, igual, el cel és llis;
el sol sembla d'argent. Mig corren tres donzelles
humils, rient: rient del fred. Fins a les celles
va embolcallat un clergue pállid, suau, estret.
(¡Oh Déu!, ¿per què simulen els clergues tant de fred?)
Al camp, la jugadora de tenis, ben cossada
pel jersei blanc, somriu, pensant a l'avançada
com fugirà - d'uns quants vinclaments exquisits -
la cremoreta gèlida del capciró deis dits.
There's a little snow in my garden 'neath a clump
of violets. Sweet and constant, the sky is clear;
the sun seems silvern. Three maids hurry,
modest, laughing, laughing at the cold. Muffled to
his brows a pallid priest, suave, stiff, goes by.
(Why, oh God, do priests pretend to be so cold?)
The tennis-player, well-cosseted in white
pullover, smiles on the court, imagining
how the frozen burning of her fingertips
will flee from its exquisite bonds.

Copyright © Estate of Josep Carner; trans. copyright © Louis J. Rodrigues - publ. Metamorphoses Vol 5 No.2


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