Alguna vez a todos a mí mismo
Nos ha crecido un árbol en las manos
O un mar sobre la frente, o la esperanza
como alfombra extendida a nuestro paso
Al encontrar un verso entre la hierba
Al madurar el fruto del abrazo
A escuchar palabras que nos tientan
El aire de palabras que arrastramos
Pero la madrugada llegó siempre
Con su fusil a ciegas preparado
Para segar la vida de los hombres
O la ilusión nacida en nuestros pasos
Y cuando fue creciendo la mañana
Nos quedó solamente nuestro asco
Y una sed infinita y la vergüenza
De nuestro propio aspecto de borrachos
Nos ha crecido un árbol en las manos
O un mar sobre la frente, o la esperanza
como alfombra extendida a nuestro paso
Al encontrar un verso entre la hierba
Al madurar el fruto del abrazo
A escuchar palabras que nos tientan
El aire de palabras que arrastramos
Pero la madrugada llegó siempre
Con su fusil a ciegas preparado
Para segar la vida de los hombres
O la ilusión nacida en nuestros pasos
Y cuando fue creciendo la mañana
Nos quedó solamente nuestro asco
Y una sed infinita y la vergüenza
De nuestro propio aspecto de borrachos
Contributed by Bernart Bartleby - 2017/9/11 - 21:37
Language: English
Traduzione inglese da Spanish Poetry In Translation
SOMETIMES
Sometimes everybody and myself,
We have a tree grown in the hands
Or the sea in front
Or the hope, like a carpet extended to our steps.
To find a verse among the herb,
To ripen the fruit of a hug,
To listen the words
That the air of words
Tempts and pulls us.
But the dawn always arrived
With its gun blindly made ready
To reap the life of men
Or the illusion born in our glasses.
And while the morning was growing,
With us remained only the disgust
And an endless thirst, and the shame
Of drunkenness of our own kind.
Sometimes everybody and myself,
We have a tree grown in the hands
Or the sea in front
Or the hope, like a carpet extended to our steps.
To find a verse among the herb,
To ripen the fruit of a hug,
To listen the words
That the air of words
Tempts and pulls us.
But the dawn always arrived
With its gun blindly made ready
To reap the life of men
Or the illusion born in our glasses.
And while the morning was growing,
With us remained only the disgust
And an endless thirst, and the shame
Of drunkenness of our own kind.
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Versi di Carlos Álvarez Cruz (1933-), poeta spagnolo, nella raccolta “Tiempo de siega y otras yerbas” pubblicata nel 1970
Musica di Rosa León, nel suo disco intitolato “Al alba”, pubblicato nel 1975
Carlos Álvarez era nato in una famiglia di fede repubblicana. Suo padre fu fucilato dai fascisti. Lui stesso a causa del regime franchista subì il carcere e l'esilio. Tutto questo segnò indelebilmente la sua opera poetica.