Charles Simic (2010): El señor de las máscaras
"Los predicadores advierten"
Este mundo pacífico nuestro está listo para la destrucción—
Y todavía el sol brilla, llegan los gorriones
cada mañana a la panadería para buscar migajas.
En la otra puerta, dos hombres entregan una cama a un par de recién casados
y se detienen a admirar una bicicleta encadenada a un parquímetro.
Su dueño está preparando el almuerzo para su abuela enferma.
Él calienta la sopa y se la sirve en un cuenco.
Las ventanas están abiertas, hay una brisa cálida.
Los árboles jóvenes de nuestra calle están locos de alegría por tener hojas.
Suena ópera italiana en la radio, el volumen está demasiado alto.
Brevi e tristi giorni visse, canta un barítono.
Todos los vecinos de nuestro bloque pueden escucharlo.
Es algo sobre los días que nos quedan por disfrutar,
que son pocos y tristes. ¡Hoy no, Maestro Verdi!
En la peluquería, una niña se levanta de una silla,
su cabello rubio se mece sobre sus hombros desnudos
cuando sale corriendo por la puerta con sus tacones altos.
"Debo marcharme", le dice el chico apuesto a su abuela.
Su bicicleta está donde la dejó.
Circula despreocupado entre el inmenso tráfico
su camisa blanca ondea en su espalda
mucho después de que todos los demás se hayan detenido de repente.
Versión en inglés
Charles Simic (2010): Master of disguises
"Preachers warn"
This peaceful world of ours is ready for destruction—
And still the sun shines, the sparrows come
Each morning to the bakery for crumbs.
Next door, two men deliver a bed for a pair of newlyweds
And stop to admire a bicycle chained to a parking meter.
Its owner is making lunch for his ailing grandmother.
He heats the soup and serves it to her in a bowl.
And still the sun shines, the sparrows come
Each morning to the bakery for crumbs.
Next door, two men deliver a bed for a pair of newlyweds
And stop to admire a bicycle chained to a parking meter.
Its owner is making lunch for his ailing grandmother.
He heats the soup and serves it to her in a bowl.
The windows are open, there’s a warm breeze.
The young trees on our street are delirious to have leaves.
Italian opera is on the radio, the volume too high.
Brevi e tristi giorni visse, a baritone sings.
Everyone up and down our block can hear him.
Something about the days that remain for us to enjoy
Being few and sad. Not today, Maestro Verdi!
The young trees on our street are delirious to have leaves.
Italian opera is on the radio, the volume too high.
Brevi e tristi giorni visse, a baritone sings.
Everyone up and down our block can hear him.
Something about the days that remain for us to enjoy
Being few and sad. Not today, Maestro Verdi!
At the hairdresser’s a girl leaps out of a chair,
Her blond hair bouncing off her bare shoulders
As she runs out the door in her high heels.
“I must be off,” says the handsome boy to his grandmother.
His bicycle is where he left it.
He rides it casually through the heavy traffic
His white shirttails fluttering behind him
Long after everyone else has come to a sudden stop.
Her blond hair bouncing off her bare shoulders
As she runs out the door in her high heels.
“I must be off,” says the handsome boy to his grandmother.
His bicycle is where he left it.
He rides it casually through the heavy traffic
His white shirttails fluttering behind him
Long after everyone else has come to a sudden stop.
Traducción de Nieves García Prados
