pocascan

CANTARES	SONGS
Rosalía de Castro	trans. James H. Donalson - (from Galician)
O meu corazón soíño e morada de cantares; nei agarimados viven coma no seu niño as aves; e cando a dor os desperte, ou cando pracer os chame, encherán de sons alegres ou de tristesiña os aires. ** A guitarriña que eu toco sente como unha persona; unhas veces canta e ríe, outras veces xime e chora. A cor d'o teu rostro, nena, é coma noite de lúa, e a mata dos teus cabellos, o mesmo que noite escura. Cando á veiriña do rio lavas os teus pes de rosa, tembran de amor as auguiñas, sospira o vento antre as ponlas. Os cravos que en pes e mans lle puxeron al Señor, lévaos a nai afrixida cravados no corasón. O mundo deume un libro; é eu son tan lerdo que canto mái-lo estudio méno-lo entendo. O santurrón de abaixo xá está morrendo; ¡que feixiño de leña vai para o inferno! Vai logo, e a tua nai dille si me despresa por probe, que o mundo da moitas voltas, que tamen se can as torres. Quítate desa ventana e oie un consello, meniña: rosa que está ben gardada os páxaros non a pican. Medín cos ollos o ceo, sondéi o fondo do mar; mais no corasón dos homes fondo no puden topar. A Dios un abogado lle imita nesto: Dios fai todo de nada ... e el fai un preito. ** Chistosa, churrusqueiriña, que sal espallando vas; ¿di cómo espaillando tanto non che se acabóu o sal?	My solitary heart is like a nest of songs: in it they live or sleep like birds do in their nests, till pain awakens them, or pleasure calls them out: and then they fill the air with mournful sounds or joy. ** When playing the guitar its feelings come to fore: at times it sings and laughs, at times laments and moans. The paleness of your face is like a moonlit night: and like a moonless night the blackness of your hair. When, on the river`s bank, you wash your rosy feet, the waters palpitate, the wind sighs up above. The nails they drove into the good Lord's hands and feet have been within the heart of Mary ever since. The world gave me a book but I am just too thick: the more I study it the less I understand. The hypocrite down there is on his death-bed now: a batch of kindling-wood to feed the fires of hell. Your mother won't approve because I am so poor? Just say the world spins on and many towers fall. Get off the window-seat: take my advice, my child, the flower that's not exposed is safe from pecking birds. By sight I sized the sky by sound I plumbed the sea; but sounding in a heart no bottom could be found. The lawyers mimic God in just one thing: for He from nothing made a world, and they create their suits. ** You pepper life with wit and laughter far and wide, and still, it seems to me the shaker's always full.

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