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| Street offering to a death people. |
Cross
Something is left
Over the warmest distances
On all the roads
there was blood from my feathers
As I tried to gather them
I saw that there were many
It is not Christ who went by
As slowly as the hours of the East
My cross did not burden my back
Nor does it fly above the roofs
THERE WERE RED SPECKS IN THE MEADOWS
My wingless cross was on my chest
And has never wished to close its eyes
A bird burns in the setting sun
The things we have forgotten
Gazing lifewards
I have seen my cigarette
smoking in the warmest distances.
From:
ARCTIC POEMS
VICENTE HUIDOBRO
Translation by Ian Barnett
Cruz
Algo se ha quedado
Sobre las más tibias lejanías
En todas las rutas
había sangre de mis plumas
Al querer recogerlas
he visto que eran muchas
No es el Cristo que ha pasado
Lento como las horas del Oriente
Mi cruz no cargó mis espaldas
Ni vuela sobre los techos
EN LA CAMPIÑA HABÍA PUNTOS ROJOS
Mi cruz sin alas iba en mi pecho
Y no ha querido nunca cerrar los ojos
Un pájaro se quema en el ocaso
Cuántas cosas hemos olvidado
Mirando hacia la vida
He visto mi cigarro
que humea en las más tibias lejanías.
