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MACHADO, Antonio


El querer


En tu boca roja y fresca

beso, y mi sed no se apaga,

que en cada beso quisiera

beber entera tu alma.


Me he enamorado de ti

y es enfermedad tan mala,

que ni la muerte la cura,

¡bien lo saben los que aman!


Loco me pongo si escucho

el ruido de tu charla,

y el contacto de tu mano

me da la vida y me mata.


Yo quisiera ser el aire

que toda entera te abraza,

yo quisiera ser la sangre

que corre por tus entrañas.


Son las líneas de tu cuerpo

el modelo de mis ansias,

el camino de mis besos

y el imán de mis miradas.


Siento al ceñir tu cintura

una duda que me mata

que quisiera en un abrazo

todo tu cuerpo y tu alma.


Estoy enfermo de ti,

de curar no hay esperanza,

que en la sed de este amor loco

tu eres mi sed y mi agua.


Maldita sea la hora

en que contemplé tu cara,

en que vi tus ojos negros

y besé tus labios grana.


Maldita sea la sed

y maldita sea el agua,

maldito sea el veneno

que envenena y que no mata.


En tu boca roja y fresca

beso, y mi sed no se apaga,

que en cada beso quisiera

beber entera tu alma.


Foreign in My Own Land


Even among familiar hills and fields

I have become foreign in my own land,

where the Duero dances over gray stones

and dances through phantom oaks,

in mystical Castile, war-like Castile,

gentle, humble, proud Castile,

Castile of snobbery and of wealth.

But I was born in Andalusia.

And filled with childhood memories,

I dream of singing her songs—

of sunshine through waving fronds,

storks perched in bell towers,

the cities beneath an indigo sky

bereft of women, deserted squares

where orange trees hunch blazing

with fruit, the shadowy orchards

where the pale fruit of lemon trees

shines in a fountain’s water.

Spikenard, carnation, basil, and mint,

olive groves half-invisible under

a brash sun that stuns and blinds,

the lavender mountains where

the evening’s rouge spills out.

Without a line to anchor memories

to the heart, they have no life.

Tattered and worn, they are

the plunder of all remembering,

the payload memory carries in itself.

Someday, in blessed light, they’ll return

like immaculate bodies to the shore.


From Sonetos: III


Have I tarnished your memory? So many times!

Life flows on by like some wide stream,

and with a tall ship, to the sea,

it bears green mud, and clouds of slime.


More so if storms have washed banks bare

dragging along the spoils of tempest,

and if an ashen cloud in heaven

is ablaze with bright-yellow flares.


Yet however it flows to an unknown shore,

life is still fountain water, freed

drop by drop, from its pure source,


or torrents of spray, that break noisily

beneath the sky, from the rocky force.

And your name sounds there, eternally!


Dreams in Dialogue IV


Oh solitude, my sole companion,

muse of marvels, that gave my voice

the word unasked for, answer my question!

Who is this now with whom I talk?


Away from the noisy masquerade

My friendless sadness turns, lady,

with you, you of the veiled face,

always veiled to speak with me.


And I think: that I am who I am, to me

that’s no great puzzle, to be the shape

created in the inner mirror, it’s the mystery


rather of your loving voice: show your face,

so that your eyes of diamond I might see,

your diamond eyes fixed on me in space.



Guadarrama


Guadarrama, is it you, old friend,

mountains white and gray

that I used to see painted against the blue

those afternoons of the old days in Madrid?

Up your deep ravines

and past your bristling peaks

a thousand Guadarramas and a thousand suns

come riding with me, riding to your heart.





Proverbios y cantares - XXIX


Caminante, son tus huellas

el camino y nada más;

Caminante, no hay camino,

se hace camino al andar.

Al andar se hace el camino,

y al volver la vista atrás

se ve la senda que nunca

se ha de volver a pisar.

Caminante no hay camino

sino estelas en la mar.





Wanderer, your footsteps

the road, and nothing more;

wanderer, we have no road,

we make the road by walking.

As you walk you make the road,

and to look back

is to see that never

can we pass this way again.

Wanderer, there is no road,

only traces in the sea.





Caminante no hay camino

Todo pasa y todo queda
pero lo nuestro es pasar,
pasar haciendo caminos,
caminos sobre la mar.

Nunca perseguí la gloria,
ni dejar en la memoria
de los hombres mi canción;
yo amo los mundos sutiles,
ingrávidos y gentiles
como pompas de jabón.

Me gusta verlos pintarse de sol y grana,
volar bajo el cielo azul,
temblar súbitamente y quebrarse...

Nunca perseguí la gloria.

Caminante son tus huellas el camino y nada más;
caminante, no hay camino se hace camino al andar.

Al andar se hace camino
y al volver la vista atrás
se ve la senda que nunca
se ha de volver a pisar.

Caminante no hay camino sino estelas en la mar...

Hace algún tiempo en ese lugar
donde hoy los bosques se visten de espinos
se oyó la voz de un poeta gritar
Caminante no hay camino, se hace camino al andar...

Golpe a golpe, verso a verso...

Murió el poeta lejos del hogar
le cubre el polvo de un país vecino.
Al alejarse, le vieron llorar.
"Caminante, no hay camino, se hace camino al andar."

Golpe a golpe, verso a verso...
Cuando el jilguero no puede cantar
cuando el poeta es un peregrino,
cuando de nada nos sirve rezar.
Caminante no hay camino, se hace camino al andar.

Golpe a golpe, verso a verso.


Wanderer, there is no path

Everything goes and everything stays
but our fate is to pass
to pass making a path as we go,
paths over the sea,

I never pursued glory,
or to leave on the memory
of the men, this my song:
I love the subtle worlds,
weightless and gentle
like soap bubbles.

I like to see them paint themselves on sun and crimson,
fly under a blue sky
shudder suddenly, and break...

I never pursued glory.

Traveler, your footprints are the path, and nothing else.
Traveler, there is no path. A path is made by walking.

A path is made by walking,
and in looking back one sees
the trodden road that never
will be set foot on again.

Traveler, there is no path, but wakes on the sea...

Some time ago on that place
where today the woods dress in brambles
the voice of a poet was heard shouting
¨Traveler, there is no path. A path is made by walking".

Blow by blow, verse by verse...

The poet died far from home
and is covered by the dust of a neighboring country.
As he went away, he could be heard crying,
"Traveler, there is no path. A path is made by walking".

Blow by blow, verse by verse...
When the robin can no longer sing,
when the poet is a pilgrim,
when praying is no more of use.
Traveler, there is no path. A path is made by walking.

Blow by blow, verse by verse





Y ha de morir contigo el mundo mago

Y ha de morir contigo el mundo mago
donde guarda el recuerdo
los hálitos más puros de la vida,

la blanca sombra del amor primero,

la voz que fue a tu corazón, la mano
que tú querías retener en sueños,
y todos los amores
que llegaron al alma, al hondo cielo?

¿Y ha de morir contigo el mundo tuyo,
la vieja vida en orden tuyo y nuevo?
¿Los yunques y crisoles de tu alma
trabajan para el polvo y para el viento?


And is that magical world to die with you

And is that magical world to die with you

where memory goes guarding

life’s purest breaths

first love’s white shadow,

the voice that entered your heart, the hand

that you had wished to hold in dream,

and all things loved

that touched the soul, the depths of sky?

And is that world of yours to die with you,

the old life you renewed and set in order?

Have the anvils and crucibles of your spirit

laboured here only for dust and wind?





Anoche cuando dormia

Anoche cuando dormía

soñé, ¡bendita ilusiòn!,

que una fontana fluía

dentro de mi corazòn.

Di: ¿por qué acequia escondida,

agua, vienes hasta mí,

manantial de nueva vida

en donde nunca bebí?


Anoche cuando dormía

soñé, ¡bendita ilusiòn!,

que una colmena tenía

dentro de mi corazòn;

y las doradas abejas

iban fabricando en él,

con las amarguras viejas,

blanca cera y dulce miel.


Anoche cuando dormía

soñé, ¡bendita ilusiòn!,

que un sol ardiente lucía

dentro de mi corazòn.

Era ardiente porque daba

calores de rojo hogar,

y era sol porque alumbraba

y porque hacía llorar.


Anoche cuando dormía

soñé, ¡bendita ilusiòn!,

que era Dios lo que tenía

dentro de mi corazòn.

:




Last night as I was sleeping,

I dreamt—marvelous error!—

that a spring was breaking

out in my heart.

I said: Along which secret aqueduct,

Oh water, are you coming to me,

water of a new life

that I have never drunk?


Last night as I was sleeping,

I dreamt—marvelous error!—

that I had a beehive

here inside my heart.

And the golden bees

were making white combs

and sweet honey

from my old failures.


Last night as I was sleeping,

I dreamt—marvelous error!—

that a fiery sun was giving

light inside my heart.

It was fiery because I felt

warmth as from a hearth,

and sun because it gave light

and brought tears to my eyes.


Last night as I slept,

I dreamt—marvelous error!—

that it was God I had

here inside my heart.





Cancione a Guiomar

De mar a mar, entre los dos la guerra

más honda que la mar. En mi parterre,

miro a la mar que el horizonte cierra.

Tú asomada, Guiomar, a un finisterre,


miras hacia otra mar, la mar de España

que Camoens cantara, tenebrosa.

Acaso a ti mi ausencia te acompaña.

A mí me duele tu recuerdo, diosa.


La guerra dio al amor el tajo fuerte.

Y es la total angustia de la muerte,

con la sombra infecunda de la llama


y la soñada miel de amor tardío,

y la flor imposible de la rama

que ha sentido del hacha el corte frío.



Song to Guimar

From sea to sea, between the two the war

Deeper than the sea. In my parterre,

I look out to the sea bound by the horizon.

You look out, Guiomar, to a Finisterre,


You look towards another sea, the sea of Spain

Which Camoens sang, dark.

Perhaps my absence stays with you.

Your memory hurts me, goddess.


The war gave love its strong edge.

And it is the total anguish of death,

With the ragged shadow of the flame


And the dreamy honey of late love,

And the impossible flower of the branch

Which has felt the cold cut of the ax.