Neruda And Vallejo: Selected Poems Part 42

G.o.d.

I feel that G.o.d is traveling so much in me, with the dusk and the sea.

With him we go along together. It is getting dark.

With him we get dark. All orphans But I feel G.o.d. And it even seems that he sets aside some good color for me.

He is kind and sad, like those who care for the sick ; he whispers with sweet contempt like a lover's: his heart must give him great pain.

Oh, my G.o.d, I've only just come to you, today I love so much in this twilight ; today that in the false balance of some b.r.e.a.s.t.s I weigh and weep for a frail Creation.

And you, what do you weep for you, in love with such an immense and whirling breast .

I consecrate you, G.o.d, because you love so much ; because you never smile; because your heart must all the time give you great pain.

Translated by Robert Bly

LOS ARRIEROS.

Arriero, vas fabulosamente vidriado de sudor.

La hacienda Menocucho cobra mil sinsabores diarios por la vida.

Las doce. Vamos a la cintura del da.

El sol que duele mucho.

Arriero, con tu poncho colorado te alejas, saboreando el romance peruano de tu coca.

Y yo desde una hamaca, desde un siglo de duda, cavilo tu horizonte y atisbo, lamentado, por zancudos, y por el estribillo gentil y enfermo de una "paca-paca".

Al fin t llegars donde debes llegar, arriero, que, detrs de tu burro santurrn, te vas te vas Feliz de ti, en este calor en que se encabritan todas las ansias y todos los motivos; cuando el espritu que anima al cuerpo apenas, va sin coca, y no atina a cabestrar su bruto hacia los Andes occidentales de la Eternidad.

THE MULE DRIVERS.

Mule driver, you walk along fantastically glazed with sweat.

The Menocucho ranch charges daily one thousand troubles for life.

Twelve noon. We've arrived at the waist of the day.

The sun that hurts so much.

Mule driver, you gradually vanish with your red poncho, enjoying the Peruvian folksong of your coca leaves.

And I, from a hammock, from a century of irresolution, brood over your horizon, mourned for by mosquitoes, and by the delicate and feeble song of a paca-paca bird.

In the end you'll arrive where you are supposed to arrive, mule driver, behind your saintly burro, going away away You are lucky then, in this heat in which all our desires and all our intentions rear up ; when the spirit that hardly rouses the body walks without coca, and does not succeed in pulling its brute toward the western Andes of Eternity.

Translated by Robert Bly

LOS PASOS LEJANOS.

Mi padre duerme. Su semblante augusto figura un apacible corazn; est ahora tan dulce si hay algo en el de amargo, sere yo.

Hay soledad en el hogar ; se reza ; y no hay noticias de los hijos hoy.

Mi padre se despierta, ausculta la huida a Egipto, el restanante adis.

Est ahora tan cerca; si hay algo en el de lejos, sere yo.

Y mi madre pasea all en los huertos, saboreando un sabor ya sin sabor.

Est ahora tan suave, tan ala, tan salida, tan amor.

Hay soledad en el hogar sin bulla, sin noticias, sin verde, sin ninez.

Y si hay algo quebrado en esta tarde, y que baja y que cruje, son dos viejos caminos blancos, curvos.

Por ellos va mi corazn a pie.

THE DISTANT FOOTSTEPS.

My father is sleeping. His n.o.ble face suggests a mild heart ; he is so sweet now if anything bitter is in him, I must be the bitterness.

There is loneliness in the parlor ; they are praying ; and there is no news of the children today.

My father wakes, he listens for the flight into Egypt, the good-bye that dresses wounds.

Now he is so near; if anything distant is in him, I must be the distance.

And my mother walks past in the orchard, savoring a taste already without savor.

Now she is so gentle, so much wing, so much farewell, so much love.

There is loneliness in the parlor with no sound, no news, no greenness, no childhood.

And if something is broken this afternoon, and if something descends or creaks, it is two old roads, curving and white.

Down them my heart is walking on foot.

Translated by James Wright

and John Knoepfle

A MI HERMANO MIGUEL.

in memoriam Hermano, hoy estoy en el poyo de la casa, donde nos haces una falta sin fondo!

Me acuerdo que jugbamos esta hora, y que mam nos acariciaba: "Pero, hijos "

Ahora yo me escondo, como antes, todas estas oraciones vespertinas, y espero que t no des conmigo.

Por la sala, el zagun, los corredores.

Despues, te ocultas t, y yo no doy contigo.

Me acuerdo que nos hacamos llorar, hermano, en aquel juego.

Miguel, t te escondiste una noche de agosto, al alborear ; pero, en ves de ocultarte riendo, estabas triste.

Y tu gemelo corazn de esas tardes extintas se ha aburrido de no encontrarte. Y ya cae sombra en el alma.

Oye hermano, no tardes en salir. Bueno? Puede inquieta.r.s.e mam.

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.

Listen, brother, don't be too late coming out. All right? Mama might worry.

Translated by John Knoepfle