TRILCE - LXXIITRILCE - LXXII
César Vallejotrans. Rebecca Seiferle
Lento salón en cono, te cerraron, te cerré,
aunque te quise, tú lo sabes,
y hoy de qué manos penderán tus llaves.

Desde estos muros derribamos los últimos 
escasos pabellones que cantaban.
Los verdes han crecido. Veo labriegos trabajando,
los cerros llenos de triunfo.
Y el mes y medio transcurrido alcanza
para una mortaja, hasta demás.

Salón de cuatro entradas y sin una salida, 
hoy que has honda murria, te hablo
por tus seis dialectos enteros.
Ya ni he de violentarme a que me seas,
de para nunca; ya no saltaremos
ningún otro portillo querido.

Julio estaba entonces de nueve.  Amor 
contó en sonido impar. Y la dulzura
dio para toda la mortaja, hasta demás.
Slow room in bittered, they closed you, I closed you,
still wanting you, you know it,
and today from whose hands will your keys hang.

From these walls we demolish the last 
few pavilions that were singing.
The foliage has grown. I see peasants working,
their backs loaded with success.
And the elapsed month and a half are enough
for one shroud, even too much.

Room with four entrances and no exit, 
today you have the blues, I speak to you
in all your six dialects.
Now I won't have to violate what you are to me,
never; now we will not breach
any other beloved door.

July was, then, the ninth month.  Love 
told an odd sound. And the sweetness
gave to every shroud, even too much.

Copyright © Rebecca Seiferle 1992, - publ. The Sheep Meadow Press


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