Dos hermanas de
Perséfone
Hay
dos jóvenes: una sentada
dentro
de la casa: la otra, fuera.
Un
dueto de luz y de sombra
interpretado
todo el día entre ellas.
En
su lóbrega habitación revestida de madera,
la
primera resuelve problemas
matemáticos
con una máquina.
Los
secos tictacs marcan el tiempo
mientras
ella calcula cada suma.
A
esa estéril empresa se consagran
sus
entornados, sagaces ojos de rata,
su
enjuto, pálido rostro de raíz.
Bronceada
como la tierra, la segunda está
tumbada,
oyendo los tictacs dorados
como
el polen en el aire resplandeciente.
Adormilada
junto a un lecho de amapolas,
observa
cómo sus rojas llamas sedosas,
de
sangre en forma de pétalos,
arden
abiertas a la espalda del sol.
Sobre
ese verde altar, transformada
Libremente
en la novia del sol, ésta última
crece
aprisa junto con las semillas.
Arrellanada
en la hierba, se siente orgullosa
de
estar engendrando a un rey. Ácida
y
amarillenta como un limón,
la
otra, virgen retorcida hasta el final,
va
abocada a la tumba con su carne fea y estragada,
desposada
ya con los gusanos, aunque no es una mujer.
Sylvia
Plath, Boston, Massachusetts, 1932, Londres, 1963
en Sylvia Plath, Poesía Completa, Edición
de Ted Hughes, Traducción y notas de Xoán Abeleira, Bartebly Editores, Madrid,
2009
imagen
de Daria Endresen© – “Frida und die Schmetterlinge”, en Uno de los nuestros
Sisters of Persephone
Two
girls there are : within the house
One sits; the other, without.
Daylong a duet of shade and light
Plays between these.
In her dark wainscoted room
The first works problems on
A mathematical machine.
Dry ticks mark time
As she calculates each sum.
At this barren enterprise
Rat-shrewd go her squint eyes,
Root-pale her meager frame.
Bronzed as earth, the second lies,
Hearing ticks blown gold
Like pollen on bright air. Lulled
Near a bed of poppies,
She sees how their red silk flare
Of petaled blood
Burns open to the sun's blade.
On that green alter
Freely become sun's bride, the latter
Grows quick with seed.
Grass-couched in her labor's pride,
She bears a king. Turned bitter
And sallow as any lemon,
The other, wry virgin to the last,
Goes graveward with flesh laid waste,
Worm-husbanded, yet no woman.
One sits; the other, without.
Daylong a duet of shade and light
Plays between these.
In her dark wainscoted room
The first works problems on
A mathematical machine.
Dry ticks mark time
As she calculates each sum.
At this barren enterprise
Rat-shrewd go her squint eyes,
Root-pale her meager frame.
Bronzed as earth, the second lies,
Hearing ticks blown gold
Like pollen on bright air. Lulled
Near a bed of poppies,
She sees how their red silk flare
Of petaled blood
Burns open to the sun's blade.
On that green alter
Freely become sun's bride, the latter
Grows quick with seed.
Grass-couched in her labor's pride,
She bears a king. Turned bitter
And sallow as any lemon,
The other, wry virgin to the last,
Goes graveward with flesh laid waste,
Worm-husbanded, yet no woman.
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