Written by
Delmira Agustini |
SpanishLa luna es pálida y triste, la luna es exangüe y yerta.
La media luna figúraseme un suave perfil de muerta…Yo que prefiero a la insigne palidez encarecidaDe todas las perlas árabes, la rosa recién abierta,En un rincón del terruño con el color de la vida,Adoro esa luna pálida, adoro esa faz de muerta!Y en el altar de las noches, como una flor encendidaY ebria de extraños perfumes, mi alma la inciensa rendida.
Yo sé de labios marchitos en la blasfemia y el vino,Que besan tras de la orgia sus huellas en el camino;Locos que mueren besando su imagen en lagos yertos…Porque ella es luz de inocencia, porque a esa luz misteriosaAlumbran las cosas blancas, se ponen blancas las cosas,Y hasta las almas más negras toman clarores inciertos! EnglishThe moon is pallid and sad, the moon is bloodless and cold.
I imagine the half-moon as a profile of the dead…And beyond the reknowned and praised pallorOf Arab pearls, I prefer the rose in recent bud.
In a corner of this land with the colors of earth,I adore this pale moon, I adore this death mask!And at the altar of the night, like a flower inflamed,Inebriated by strange perfumes, my soul resigns.
I know of lips withered with blasphemy and wine;After an orgy they kiss her trace in the lane.
Insane ones who die kissing her image in lakes…Because she is light of innocence, because white thingsIlluminate her mysterious light, things taking on white,And even the blackest souls become uncertainly bright.
|
Written by
Aleksandr Blok |
The restaurants on hot spring evenings
Lie under a dense and savage air.
Foul drafts and hoots from dunken revelers
Contaminate the thoroughfare.
Above the dusty lanes of suburbia
Above the tedium of bungalows
A pretzel sign begilds a bakery
And children screech fortissimo.
And every evening beyond the barriers
Gentlemen of practiced wit and charm
Go strolling beside the drainage ditches --
A tilted derby and a lady at the arm.
The squeak of oarlocks comes over the lake water
A woman's shriek assaults the ear
While above, in the sky, inured to everything,
The moon looks on with a mindless leer.
And every evening my one companion
Sits here, reflected in my glass.
Like me, he has drunk of bitter mysteries.
Like me, he is broken, dulled, downcast.
The sleepy lackeys stand beside tables
Waiting for the night to pass
And tipplers with the eyes of rabbits
Cry out: "In vino veritas!"
And every evening (or am I imagining?)
Exactly at the appointed time
A girl's slim figure, silk raimented,
Glides past the window's mist and grime.
And slowly passing throught the revelers,
Unaccompanied, always alone,
Exuding mists and secret fragrances,
She sits at the table that is her own.
Something ancient, something legendary
Surrounds her presence in the room,
Her narrow hand, her silk, her bracelets,
Her hat, the rings, the ostrich plume.
Entranced by her presence, near and enigmatic,
I gaze through the dark of her lowered veil
And I behold an enchanted shoreline
And enchanted distances, far and pale.
I am made a guardian of the higher mysteries,
Someone's sun is entrusted to my control.
Tart wine has pierced the last convolution
of my labyrinthine soul.
And now the drooping plumes of ostriches
Asway in my brain droop slowly lower
And two eyes, limpid, blue, and fathomless
Are blooming on a distant shore.
Inside my soul a treasure is buried.
The key is mine and only mine.
How right you are, you drunken monster!
I know: the truth is in the wine.
|
Written by
Federico García Lorca |
La luna vino a la fragua
con su polis?n de nardos.
El ni?o la mira mira.
El ni?o la est? mirando.
En el aire conmovido
mueve la luna sus brazos
y ense?a, l?brica y pura,
sus senos de duro esta?o.
Huye luna, luna, luna.
Si vinieran los gitanos,
har?an con tu coraz?n
collares y anillos blancos.
Ni?o, d?jame que baile.
Cuando vengan los gitanos,
te encontrar?n sobre el yunque
con los ojillos cerrados.
Huye luna, luna, luna,
que ya siento sus caballos.
N?no, d?jame, no pises
mi blancor almidonado.
El jinete se acercaba
tocando el tambor del llano
Dentro de la fragua el ni?o,
tiene los ojos cerrados.
Por el olivar ven?an,
bronce y sue?o, los gitanos.
Las cabezas levantadas
y los ojos entornados.
?C?mo canta la zumaya,
ay c?mo canta en el ?rbol!
Por el cielo va la luna
con un ni?o de la mano.
Dentro de la fragua lloran,
dando gritos, los gitanos.
El aire la vela, vela.
El aire la est? velando.
|
Written by
Robert William Service |
Three widows of the Middle West
We're grimly chewing gum;
The Lido chef a quail had dressed
With garlic and with rum,
And they were painfully oppressed
For they had eaten some.
Said One: "This famed El Greco guy
Gives me the blessed pip;
Them Saints look like they want to die -
Let's give our guide the slip,
And in some bodega close by
A glass of vino sip.
"
Said Two: "It's this Cathedral stuff
That fairly gets me down.
I think one church is quite enough
In any Spanish town;
But here there's four - that's pretty tough
No matter their renown.
"
Said Three: "It's that Alcázar show
That simply knocked me out;
That dismal dungeon down below,
Then ruins all about;
That funny, fat old Moscardo
Who put the Reds to rout.
"
Hey, Mister Guide! implored the Three,
"Return to gay Madrid.
"
The guide was shocked, but trained was he
To do as he was bid.
So three dames of the Middle West,
Dyspeptically glum
Went back to town, and quite depressed
The guide was chewing gum.
|