-My son, you look so old!
And files along the yellow color to cry, for she finds me aged, in the sword blade, in the outlet of my face. She cries over me, saddens over me. What need will there be for my youth, if I am always to be her son? Why do mothers ache finding their sons old, if the age of the sons never reaches that of their mothers? And why, if the children, the more they are used up, come nearer to their parents? My mother cries because I am old from my time and because never will I grow old from hers!
My farewell set off from a point in her being more external than the point in her being to which I return. I am, because of the excessive time in my return, more the que el hijo ante mi madre. Alli reside el candor que hoy nos alumbra con tres llamas. Le digo entonces hasta que me callo:
- Hay, madre, en el mundo un sitio que se llama Paris. Un sitio muy grande y muy lejano y otra vez grande.
La mujer de mi padre, al oirme, almuerza y sus ojos mortales descienden suavemente por mis brazos.
[19231
man before my mother than the child before my mother. There resides the candor which today makes us glow with three flames. I say to her then until I hush:
-There is, mother, in the world, a place called Paris. A very big place and very far off and once again big.
My father's wife, on hearing me, eats her lunch and her mortal eyes descend softly down my arms.
LA VIOLENCIA DE LAS HORAS
Todos han muerto.
Murio dona Antonia, la ronca, que hacia pan barato en el burgo.
Murio el cura Santiago, a quien placia le saludasen los jovenes y las mozas, respondiendoles a todos, indistintamente: "Buenos dias, Jose! Buenos dias, Maria!"
Murio aquella joven rubia, Carlota, dejando un hijito de meses, que luego tambien murio, a los ocho dias de la madre.
Murio mi tia Albina, que solia cantar tiempos y modos de heredad, en tanto cosia en los corredores, para Isidora, la criada de oficio, la honrosisima mujer.
Murio un viejo tuerto, su nombre no recuerdo, pero dormia al sol de la manana, sentado ante la puerta del hojalatero de la esquina.
Murio Rayo, el perro de mi altura, herido de un balazo de no se sabe quien.
Murio Lucas, mi cuaado en la paz de las cinturas, de quien me acuerdo cuando llueve y no hay nadie en mi experiencia.
Murio en mi revolver mi madre, en mi puno mi hermana y mi hermano en mi viscera sangrienta, los tres ligados por un genero triste de tristeza, en el mes de agosto de anos sucesivos.
Murio el miisico Mendez, alto y muy borracho, que solfeaba en su clarinete tocatas melancolicas, a cuyo articulado se dormian las gallinas de mi barrio, mucho antes de que el sol se fuese.
Murio mi eternidad y estoy velandola.
[19241
VIOLENCE OF THE HOURS
All are dead.
Dona Antonia died, the hoarse one, who made cheap bread in the hamlet.
The priest Santiago died, who liked to be greeted by the young men and the girls, acknowledging everyone indiscriminately: "Good morning, Jose! Good morning, Maria!"
That young blonde, Carlota, died, leaving a very young son, who then also died, eight days after his mother.
My Aunt Albina died, who used to sing inherited tenses and moods, while she sewed in the interior corridors, for Isidora, the maidservant by trade, that most honorable woman.
An old one-eyed died, I don't remember his name, but he slept in the morning sun, seated before the corner tinsmith's door.
Rayo died, the dog as tall as me, shot by lord-knows-who.
Lucas died, my brother-in-law in the peace of the waists, who I remember when it rains and there is no one in my experience.
My mother died in my revolver, my sister in my fist and my brother in my bloody viscera, the three bound by a sad kind of sadness, in the month of August of successive years.
The musician Mendez died, tall and very drunk, who used to sol-fa melancholy toccatas on his clarinet, at whose articulation the hens in my neighborhood would go to sleep, long before the sun went down.
My eternity has died and I am waking it.
Las ventanas se han estremecido, elaborando una metafisica del universo. Vidrios han caido. Un enfermo lanza su queja: la mitad por su boca lenguada y sobrante, y toda entera, por el ano de su espalda.
Es el huracan. Un castano del jardin de las Tullerias habrase abatido, al soplo del viento, que mide ochenta metros por segundo. Capiteles de los barrios antiguos, habran caido, hendiendo, matando.
tDe que punto, interrogo, oyendo a ambas riberas de los oceanos, de que punto viene este huracan, tan digno de credito, tan honrado de deuda, derecho a las ventanas del hospital? jAy! las direcciones inmutables, que oscilan entre el huracan y esta pena directa de toser o defecar! jAy! las direcciones inmutables, que asi prenden muerte en las entranas del hospital y despiertan celulas clandestinas, a deshora, en los cadaveres.
tQue pensaria de si el enfermo de enfrente, ese que esta durmiendo, si hubiera percibido el huracan? El pobre duerme, Boca arriba, a la cabeza de su morfina, a los pies de toda su cordura. Un adarme mas o menos en la dosis y le llevaran a ente- rrar, el vientre roto, la Boca arriba, sordo al huracan, sordo a su vientre roto, ante el cual suelen los medicos dialogar y cavilar largamente, para, al fin, pronunciar sus llanas palabras de hombres.
La familia rodea al enfermo agrupandose ante sus sienes regresivas, indefensas, sudorosas. Ya no existe hogar sino en torno al velador del pariente enfermo, donde montan guardia impaciente, sus zapatos vacantes, sus cruces de repuesto, sus pil- doras de opio. La familia rodea la mesita por espacio de un alto dividendo. Una mujer acomoda en el horde de la mesa, la taza, que casi se ha caido.
Ignoro lo que sera del enfermo esta mujer, que le besa y no puede sanarle con el beso, le mira y no puede sanarle con los ojos, le habla y no puede sanarle con el verbo. tEs su madre? tY como, pues, no puede sanarle? js su amada? tY como, pues, no puede sanarle? tEs su hermana? tY como, pues, no puede sanarle? tEs, simplemente, una mujer? tY como, pues, no puede sanarle? Porque esta mujer le ha besado, le ha mirado, le ha hablado y hasta le ha cubierto mejor el cuello al enfermo y jcosa verdaderamente asombrosa! no le ha sanado.
El paciente contempla su calzado vacante. Traen queso. Llevan tierra. La muerte se acuesta al pie del lecho, a dormir en sus tranquilas aguas y se duerme. Entonces, los litres pies del hombre enfermo, sin menudencias ni pormenores innecesarios, se estiran en acento circunflejo, y se alejan, en una extension de dos cuerpos de novios, del corazon. >
The windows shuddered, elaborating a metaphysic of the universe. Glass fell. A sick man lets loose his complaint: half of it through his tongued and remaining mouth, and the whole thing, through the anus in his back.
It is the hurricane. A chestnut tree in the Tuileries garden must have been toppled, by the blowing of the wind which attained eighty meters a second. Capitals in the old quarters, must have fallen, splitting, killing.
From what point, do I question, listening to both shores of the oceans, from what point does the hurricane come, so worthy of credit, so honest in debt, straight at the hospital windows? Ay the immutable directions, that oscillate between the hurricane and this direct weariness of coughing or defecating! Ay the immutable directions, that thus entrap death in the entrails of the hospital and awaken clandestine cells, untimely, in the cadavers.
What would the sick man in front of me, the one sleeping, think of himself if he had noticed the hurricane? The poor guy sleeps, on his back, at the head of his morphine, at the foot of all of his sanity. A half drachm more or less in the dose and they will carry him away to be buried, belly torn open, mouth up, deaf to the hurricane, deaf to his torn belly, over which the doctors are accustomed to debate and ponder at great lengths, to finally pronounce their plain and human words.
The family surrounds the sick man clustering before his regressive, defenseless, sweaty temples. Home no longer exists except around the sick relative's night table, where his unoccupied shoes, his spare crosses, his opium pills impatiently mount g
uard. The family surrounds the small table during a high dividend. At the edge of the table, a woman sets back the cup, which had almost fallen.
I don't know who this woman could be to this sick man, who kisses him and cannot heal him with her kiss, who looks at him and cannot heal him with her eyes, who talks to him and cannot heal him with her word. Is she his mother? And why, then, can't she heal him? Is she his lover? And why, then, can't she heal him? Is she his sister? And why, then, can't she heal him? Is she, simply, a woman? And why, then, can't she heal him? For this woman has kissed him, has watched over him, has talked to him and has even carefully covered the sick man's neck and-what is truly astonishing!-she has not healed him.
The patient contemplates his unoccupied shoes. They bring in cheese. They carry out dirt. Death lies down at the foot of the bed, to sleep in its quiet waters and goes to sleep. Then, the freed feet of the sick man, without trifles or unnecessary details, stretch out in a circumflex accent, and pull away, the distance of two sweethearts' bodies, from his heart. >
El cirujano ausculta a los enfermos, horas enteras. Hasta donde sus manos cesan de trabajar y empiezan a jugar, las lleva a tientas, rozando la piel de los pacientes, en tanto sus parpados cientificos vibran, tocados por la indocta, por la humana flaqueza del amor. Y he visto a esos enfermos morir precisamente del amor des- doblado del cirujano, de los largos diagnosticos, de las dosis exactas, del riguroso analisis de orinas y excrementos. Se rodeaba de improviso un lecho con un biombo. Medicos y enfermeros cruzaban delante del ausente, pizarra triste y proxima, que un nino llenara de ndmeros, en un gran monismo de palidos miles. Cruzaban asi, mirando a los otros, como si mas irreparable fuese morir de apendicitis o neumonia, y no morir al sesgo del paso de los hombres.
Sirviendo a la causa de la religion, vuela con exito esta mosca, a lo largo de la sala. A la hora de la visita de los cirujanos, sus zumbidos no perdonan el pecho, cierta- mente, pero desarrollandose luego, se aduenan del aire, para saludar con genio de mudanza, a los que van a morir. Unos enfermos oyen a esa mosca hasta durante el dolor y de ellos depende, por eso, el linaje del disparo, en las noches tremebundas.
tCuanto tiempo ha durado la anestesia, que Haman los hombres? jCiencia de Dios, Teodicea! jsi se me echa a vivir en tales condiciones, anestesiado totalmente, vol- teada mi sensibilidad para adentro! iAh doctores de las sales, hombres de las esen- cias, projimos de las bases! jPido se me deje con mi tumor de conciencia, con mi irritada lepra sensitiva, ocurra lo que ocurra, aunque me muera! Dejadme dolerme, si lo quereis, mas dejadme despierto de sueno, con todo el universo metido, aunque fuese a las malas, en mi temperatura polvorosa.
En el mundo de la salud perfecta, se reira por esta perspectiva en que padezco; pero, en el mismo plano y cortando la baraja del juego, percute aqui otra risa de contrapunto.
En la casa del dolor, la queja asalta sincopes de gran compositor, golletes de carac- ter, que nos hacen cosquillas de verdad, atroces, arduas, y, cumpliendo lo pro- metido, nos hielan de espantosa incertidumbre.
En la casa del dolor, la queja arranca frontera excesiva. No se reconoce en esta queja de dolor, a la propia queja de la dicha en extasis, cuando el amor y la carne se exi- men de azor y cuando, al regresar, hay discordia bastante para el dialogo. >
The surgeon auscultates the sick, for hours on end. Up to the point when his hands quit working, and begin to play, he uses them gropingly, grazing the patients' skin, while his scientific eyebrows vibrate, touched by the untaught, by the human weakness of love. And I have seen these sick die precisely from the unfolded love of the surgeon, from the lengthy diagnoses, from the exact doses, from the rigorous analysis of urine and excrement. A bed was suddenly encircled with a folding screen. Doctors and nurses were crossing in front of the absent one, sad and nearby blackboard, the kind that a child would fill with numbers, in a great monism of pallid thousands. They kept on crossing, looking at each other, as if it were more irreparable to die from appendicitis or pneumonia, than to die aslant the step of men.
Serving the cause of religion, this fly zooms successfully all around the hospital ward. Certainly, during the surgeons' visiting hours, its buzzings surely do not forgive our chests, but expanding then they take over the air, to salute in the spirit of change, those who are about to die. Some of the sick hear this fly even in their pain and on them depends, for this reason, the lineage of the gunshot in the dreadful nights.
How long has anesthesia, as men call it, lasted? Science of God, Theodicy! if I am forced to live under such circumstances, totally anesthetized, my sensitivity turned outside in! Ah doctors of the salts, men of the essences, fellowmen of the bases! I beg to be left with my tumor of consciousness, with my sensitive irritated leprosy, no matter what happens, even if I die! Allow me to feel my pain, if you wish, but leave me awake from sleep, with all the universe embedded, even if by force, in my dusty temperature.
In the world of perfect health, the perspective on which I suffer will be mocked; but, on the same plane and cutting the deck for the game, another laugh percusses here in counterpoint.
In the house of pain, the moans assault the syncopes of a great composer, gullets of character, which make us feel real, arduous, atrocious tickles, and, fulfilling what they promised, freeze us in terrifying uncertainty.
In the house of pain, the moan uproots the excessive frontier. In this moan of pain, one cannot recognize one's own moan of happiness in ecstasy, when love and flesh are free from the goshawk and when, upon coming back, there is enough discord for dialogue. >
tDonde esta, pues, el otro flanco de esta queja de dolor, si, a estimarla en conjunto, parte ahora del lecho de un hombre?
De la casa del dolor parten quejas tan sordas e inefables y tan colmadas de tanta plenitud que llorar por ellas seria poco, y seria ya mucho sonreir.
Se atumulta la sangre en el termometro.
jNo es grato morir, senor, si en la vida nada se deja y si en la muerte nada es posible, sino sobre lo que se deja en la vida!
jNo es grato morir, senor, si en la vida nada se deja y si en la muerte nada es posible, sino sobre lo que se deja en la vida!
jNo es grato morir, senor, si en la vida nada se deja y si en la muerte nada es posible, sino sobre lo que pudo dejarse en la vida!
[19241
Where then is the other flank of this painful moan if, to consider it as a whole, it now comes from the bed of a man?
From the house of pain there come moans so muffled and ineffable and so overflowing with so much fullness that to weep for them would be too little, and yet to smile would be too much.
Blood runs wild in the thermometer.
It is not pleasant to die, lord, if one leaves nothing in life and if nothing is possible in death, except for that which is left in life!
It is not pleasant to die, lord, if one leaves nothing in life and if nothing is possible in death, except for that which is left in life!
It is not pleasant to die, lord, if one leaves nothing in life and if nothing is possible in death, except for that which one could have left in life!
EL MOMENTO MAS GRAVE DE LA VIDA
Un hombre dijo:
- El momento mas grave de mi vida estuvo en la batalla del Marne, cuando fui herido en el pecho.
Otro hombre dijo:
-El momento mas grave de mi vida, ocurrio en un maremoto de Yokohama, del cual salve milagrosamente, refugiado bajo el alero de una tienda de lacas.
Y otro hombre dijo:
-El momento mas grave de mi vida acontece cuando duermo de dia.
Y otro dijo:
-El momento mas grave de mi vida ha estado en mi mayor soledad.
Y otro dijo:
-El momento mas grave de mi vida fue mi prision en una carcel del Peru.
Y otro dijo:
-El momento mas grave de mi vida es el hater sorprendido de perfil a mi padre.
Y el ultimo hombre dijo:
-El momento mas grave de mi vida no ha llegado todavia.
THE LOW POINT IN LIFE
A man said:
-The low point in my life took place in the battle of the Marne, when I was wounded in the chest.
Another man said:
- The low point in my life occurred during a tsunami in Yokohama, from which I was miraculously saved, sheltered under the eaves of a lacquer shop.
And another man said:
- The low point in my life happens when I sleep during the day.
And another said:
- The low point in my life has been during my greatest loneliness.
And another said:
- The low point in my life was my imprisonment in a Peruvian jail.
And another said:
- The low point in my life is having surprised my father in profile.
And the last man said:
- The low point of my life hasn't happened yet.
NOMINA DE HUESOS
Se pedia a grandes voces:
-Que muestre las dos manos a la vez.
Y esto no fue posible.
-Que, mientras llora, le tomen la medida de sus pasos.
Y esto no fue posible.
-Que piense un pensamiento identico, en el tiempo en que un cero perma- nece iniitil.
Y esto no fue posible.
-Que Naga una locura.
Y esto no fue posible.
-Que entre el y otro hombre semejante a el, se interponga una muchedumbre de hombres como el.
Y esto no fue posible.
-Que le comparen consigo mismo.
Y esto no fue posible.
-Que le llamen, en fin, por su nombre.
Y esto no fue posible.
[1924/19251
ROSTER OF BONES
They demanded shouting:
-Let him show both hands at once.
And this was not possible.
-Let them, while he's crying, take the measure of his steps.
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