| TARDE DEL TRÓPICO | NIGHTFALL IN THE TROPICS |
| Rubén Darío | tr. Thomas Walsh |
|
Es la tarde gris y triste. Viste el mar de terciopelo y el cielo profundo viste de duelo. Del abismo se levanta la queja amarga y sonora La onda, cuando el viento canta, llora, Los violines de la bruma saludan al sol que muere. Salmodia la blanca espuma: ¡Miserere! La armonía el cielo inunda, y la brisa va a llevar la canción triste y profunda del mar. Del clarín del horizonte brota sinfonía rara, como si la voz del monte vibrara. Cual si fuese lo invisible... cual si fuese el rudo són que diese al viento un terrible león. |
There is twilight grey and gloomy Where the sea its velvet trails; Out across the heavens roomy Draw the veils. Bitter and sonorous rises The complaint from out the deeps, And the wave the wind surprises Weeps. Viols there amid the gloaming Hail the sun that dies, And the white spray in its foaming "Miserere" sighs. Harmony the heavens embraces, And the breeze is lifting free To the chanting of the races Of the sea. Clarions of horizons calling Strike a symphony most rare, As if mountain voices calling Vibrate there. As though dread, unseen, were waking, As though awesome echoes bore On the distant breeze's quaking The lion's roar. |