psbargro

GROSMONT CASTLE: THE GREAT CHIMNEY	GROSMONT CASTLE: THE GREAT CHIMNEY
Carlos Barbarito	trans. Ricardo Nirenberg
Otros son los muertos. Flotan en el silencio del mediodía, nostálgicos de la saciedad y la sed. Se alejan, no se alejan. Tienen ojos que no usan, manos que no acarician, por gusto o temor, la pétrea materia verdinegra. Otros llevan lámparas apagadas, visten raídos capotes, esgrimen escudos rotos. Nos abrazamos y es luz, retamas hasta el horizonte, asentado presente. Entonces, es la respiración de cada hierba, apretada contra otra hierba o solitaria, lo que se manifiesta, nos alcanza y atraviesa, torna de a poco y de nuevo madera a lo que era apenas aserrines dispersos en el aire.	The dead are not like us. Suspended in the midday still, they miss satiety and thirst. They wane, yet stay. Their eyes are set aside, their hands do not caress, eager or fearful, the stony mossy stuff. They carry extinguished lamps, threadbare raincoats, broken shields. We hug and all lights up, broom as far as one can see, a settled present moment. We feel each grass blade's breath pressed against another blade or by itself: it catches up to us and pierces through, then slowly turns back into wood that which was sawdust scattered in the air.