GOLPEA LA PUERTA CERRADA DE UNA CASA ... HE KNOCKS ON THE CLOSED DOOR OF A HOUSE ...
Carlos Barbarito trans. Stefan Beyst
¿Quién me librará de este cuerpo de muerte?
Pablo, Romanos VII.



Golpea la puerta cerrada de una casa
a oscuras.
Llueve.
Su cabeza sabe
que va a morir y que, antes,
un poco antes, se topará cara a cara
con eso que funde los pasos de un hombre
con el efímero y errático
vuelo de un insecto.
El agua lo moja:
para que esta lluvia caiga
como cae, y lo moje del modo en que lo moja,
debió suceder algo vasto y terrible
en otra parte:
la extinción de una especie,
muerta de sed a orillas de un río seco,
las nubes huyendo grávidas
de toda el agua, sin sentir culpa alguna.
A sus golpes nadie responde.
O sí,
una voz remota, casi inaudible,
que le advierte
lo que su razón ya aceptó
y su corazón rechaza:
Hasta
el fuego un día reposa,
frío.
Who shall deliver me from this body of death?
Paul, Romans VII (24,25)



He knocks on the closed door of a house
in the dark.
It is raining.
His head knows
that he is going to die and that, before,
a short time before, he will bump face to face
into what the steps of a man have in common
with the ephemeral and erratic
flight of an insect.
The water makes him wet.
In order for this rain to fall as it falls,
and to make him wet the way it makes him wet,
something immense and terrible had to take place
elsewhere:
the extinction of a species,
death from thirst
on the banks of a dry river,
clouds pregnant with water fleeing without feeling any shame.
To his knocking no one responds.
Or, still,
an almost inaudible, distant voice,
that warns him
of what his reason already accepted
but what his heart rejects:
Until
the fire one day rests,
cold.

Copyright © Carlos Barbarito 2004; Trans. copyright © Stefan Beyst 2004


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