VALLEJO, Cesar
To My Brother Miguel in memoriam
Brother, today I sit on the brick bench outside the house,
where you make a bottomless emptiness.
I remember we used to play at this hour of the day, and mama
would calm us: “There now, boys...”
Now I go hide
as before, from all these evening
prayers, and I hope that you will not find me.
In the parlor, the entrance hall, the corridors.
Later, you hide, and I do not find you.
I remember we made each other cry,
brother, in that game.
Miguel, you hid yourself
one night in August, nearly at daybreak,
but instead of laughing when you hid, you were sad.
And your other heart of those dead afternoons
is tired of looking and not finding you. And now
shadows fall on the soul.
Poem To Be Read And Sung
I know there is a person
Who looks for me day and night inside her hand,
and coming upon me, every minute, in her shoes.
Doesn't she know that the night is buried
with spurs behind the kitchen?
I know there is someone composed of my pieces,
whom I complete when my waist goes
galloping in her precise little stone.
Doesn't she know that money once out for her likeness
never returns to her trunk?
I know the day,
but the sun has escaped from me;
I know the universal act she performed in her bed
with some other woman's bravery and warm water,
whose shallow recurrence is a mine.
Is it possible this being is so small
even her own feet walk on her that way?
A cat is the border between us two,
right there beside her bowl of water.
I see her on the corners, her dress - once
an inquiring palm tree - opens and closes...
What can she do but change her style weeping?
But she does look and look for me. This is a real story!
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y muerto el combatiente, vino hacia él un hombre y le dijo: «¡No mueras, te amo tanto!»
Pero el cadáver ¡ay! siguió muriendo.
«¡No nos dejes! ¡Valor! ¡Vuelve a la vida!»
Pero el cadáver ¡ay! siguió muriendo.
clamando «¡Tanto amor y no poder nada contra la muerte!
Pero el cadáver ¡ay! siguió muriendo.
con un ruego común: «¡Quédate hermano!»
Pero el cadáver ¡ay! siguió muriendo.
le rodearon; les vio el cadáver triste, emocionado; incorporóse lentamente,
abrazó al primer hombre; echóse a andar...
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and the combatant dead, a man came unto him and said ‘Do not die, I love you so much!’
But the corpse, alas, kept on dying.
‘Do not leave us! Be brave! Come back to life!’
But the corpse, alas, kept on dying.
shouting: ‘So much love, and nothing can be done against death!’
But the corpse, alas, kept on dying.
with one common plea: ‘Stay here, brother!’
But the corpse, alas, kept on dying.
surrounded him; moved, the sad corpse looked at them; he rose up slowly,
embraced the first man; started to walk . .
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Golpes como del odio de Dios; como si ante ellos, la resaca de todo lo sufrido
se empozara en el alma... ¡Yo no sé!
en el rostro más fiero y en el lomo más fuerte. Serán tal vez los potros de bárbaros Atilas;
o los heraldos negros que nos manda la Muerte.
de alguna fe adorable que el Destino blasfema. Esos golpes sangrientos son las crepitaciones
de algún pan que en la puerta del horno se nos quema.
cuando por sobre el hombro nos llama una palmada; vuelve los ojos locos, y todo lo vivido
se empoza, como charco de culpa, en la mirada.
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Blows as from God's hatred; as if before them, the backlash of everything suffered
were to dam up in the soul ... I don't know!
in the fiercest face and in the strongest side. Maybe they could be the horses of barbarous Attilas;
or the black heralds Death sends us.
of some revered faith Destiny blasphemes. Those gory blows are the cracklings of a bread
that burns-up on us at the oven's door.
as when a slap on the shoulder calls us; he turns his crazed eyes, and everything lived
is dammed up, like a pond of guilt, in his gaze.
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