GROSMONT CASTLE:
THE GREAT CHIMNEY
GROSMONT CASTLE:
THE GREAT CHIMNEY
Carlos Barbaritotrans. 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.

Copyright © Carlos Barbarito 2002; trans. copyright © Ricardo Nirenberg 2003.
Published at http://offcourse.org



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