SINFONÍA EN GRIS MAYOR SYMPHONY IN GREY MAJOR
Rubén Daríotr. Brian Cole
El mar como un vasto cristal azogado
refleja la lámina de un cielo de zinc;
lejanas bandadas de pájaros manchan
el fondo bruñido de pálido gris.

El sol como un vidrio redondo y opaco
con paso de enfermo camina al cenit;
el viento marino descansa en la sombra
teniendo de almohada su negro clarín.

Las ondas que mueven su vientre de plomo 
debajo del muelle parecen gemir.
Sentado en un cable, fumando su pipa,
está un marinero pensando en las playas
de un vago, lejano, brumoso país.

Es viejo ese lobo.  Tostaron su cara 
los rayos de fuego del sol del Brasil;
los recios tifones del mar de la China
le han visto bebiendo su frasco de gin.

La espuma impregnada de yodo y salitre 
ha tiempo conoce su roja nariz,
sus crespos cabellos, sus biceps de atleta,
su gorra de lona, su blusa de dril.

En medio del humo que forma el tabaco 
ve el viejo el lejano, brumoso país,
adonde una tarde caliente y dorada
tendidas las velas partió el bergantín ...

La siesta del trópico.  El lobo se duerme.
Ya todo lo envuelve la gama del gris.
Parece que un suave y enorme esfumino
del curvo horizonte borrara el confín.

La siesta del trópico.  La vieja cigarra 
ensaya su ronca guitarra senil,
y el grillo preludia un solo monótono
en la única cuerda que está en su violín.
The sea like a great quicksilver mirror
reflects galvanised sheet of the the sky;
distant flocks of birds make stains
on the burnished background of pallid grey.

The sun, like a round, opaque window
climbs at an invalid's pace to the zenith;
the wind from the sea rests in the shade
using its black bugle as a pillow.

The waves that move their leaden belly
under the wharf are heard to moan.
Sitting on a cable, smoking his pipe,
there is a sailor dreaming of the beaches
of a vague and distant, misty land.

He is old, this sea-dog. The fiery rays
of Brazilian sun have scorched his face;
the fierce typhoons of the China sea
have seen him drinking his bottle of gin.

The foam impregnated with iodine and saltpetre
has long been familiar with his red nose,
his curly hair, his athlet's biceps,
his canvas cap and his blouse of drill.

In the middle of the smoke from his tobacco
the old man sees the distant misty land
for which one warm and golden evening
his brig set out with all sails set ...

The siesta of the tropics. The sea-dog sleeps.
Now the gamut of grey envelops him.
It seems as if a soft enormous charcoal
will blur the edge of the curved horizon.

The siesta of the tropics. The old cicada
tries out his ancient husky guitar,
and the cricket strikes up a monotonous solo
on the single string of his violin.

Trans. copyright © Brian Cole, 2001


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