El
Trance
A veces, separados
al dormir, de improviso,
te alejas de mis
brazos, sola,
hacia el caos de
tu trance individual.
Mis ojos miran a
través de tu frente, a través del hueso,
y veo dónde al dormir la angustia dividió
su camino, que
se nota: en tus labios
y que en tus
manos y en tu sueño se pierde.
Nerviosa, te das
vuelta y empujas
esas palabras
tímidas contra mi oído
qué retumban en
mi corazón como piedras.
‘Piedad’,
ruegas, después ‘¿Quién es capaz de consagrar?’
preguntas . ‘Me
persigue el Tiempo’, te lamentas.
Observo ese precipicio de miedo
donde caminas,
desnuda en desnuda angustia.
Comprometidos a
ese cuidado profundo
debajo del
estado salvaje de nuestra carne
y temblando el terror de nuestro sueño,
donde la agonía sin
máscara es permitida.
Nuestros cuerpos, despojados de ropas que simulan,
y nuestras
almas, despojadas del tejido de la belleza,
sus encantos
burlados, encuentran su verdadero yo.
Este trance puro
es el oráculo
que no habla
otro idioma que el del corazón.
Nuestro ángel se
encuentra con nuestro demonio,
en la atroz
oscuridad no se separan
sino que cada
uno perdona y da la bienvenida,
y sus mutuos
temores son sanados
en el milagro de
nuestra unión.
Stephen Spender, Kensington, 1909- City of
Westminster, 1995
Versión © Silvia Camerotto
imagen de Winston Chmielinski, en athenna
The Trance
Sometimes, apart in sleep, by chance,
You fall out of my arms, alone,
Into the chaos of your separate trance.
My eyes gaze through your forehead, through the bone,
And see where in your sleep distress has torn
Its path, which on your lips is shown
And on your hands and in your dream forlorn.
Restless, you turn to me and press
Those timid words against my ear
Which thunder at my heart like stones.
'Mercy,' you plead, then 'Who can bless?'
You ask. 'I am pursued by Time,' you moan.
I watch that precipice of fear
You tread, naked in naked distress.
To that deep care we are committed
Beneath the wildness of our flesh
And shuddering horror of our dream,
Where unmasked agony is permitted.
Our bodies, stripped of clothes that seem,
And our souls, stripped of beauty's mesh,
Meet their true selves, their charms outwitted.
This pure trance is the oracle
That speaks no language but the heart.
Our angel with our devil meets
In the atrocious dark nor do they part
But each forgives and greets,
And their mutual terrors heal
Within our married miracle.
You fall out of my arms, alone,
Into the chaos of your separate trance.
My eyes gaze through your forehead, through the bone,
And see where in your sleep distress has torn
Its path, which on your lips is shown
And on your hands and in your dream forlorn.
Restless, you turn to me and press
Those timid words against my ear
Which thunder at my heart like stones.
'Mercy,' you plead, then 'Who can bless?'
You ask. 'I am pursued by Time,' you moan.
I watch that precipice of fear
You tread, naked in naked distress.
To that deep care we are committed
Beneath the wildness of our flesh
And shuddering horror of our dream,
Where unmasked agony is permitted.
Our bodies, stripped of clothes that seem,
And our souls, stripped of beauty's mesh,
Meet their true selves, their charms outwitted.
This pure trance is the oracle
That speaks no language but the heart.
Our angel with our devil meets
In the atrocious dark nor do they part
But each forgives and greets,
And their mutual terrors heal
Within our married miracle.
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