Un proceso en el clima del corazón
Un proceso
en el clima del corazón
vuelve seco
lo húmedo; la bala de oro
pega en la
tumba helada.
Un clima en
el sector de las venas
convierte
la noche en día; la sangre de sus soles
ilumina al gusano viviente.
Un proceso
en el ojo advierte
a los
huesos de la ceguera; y el útero
trae una
muerte mientras se escapa la vida.
Una
oscuridad en el clima del ojo
es la mitad
de su luz; el mar profundo
rompe en
tierra sin límites.
La semilla
que de la entraña hace un bosque
corta la
mitad de su fruto; y cae la una mitad,
lenta en un
viento dormido.
Un clima en
la carne y el hueso
es húmedo y
seco; los vivos y los muertos
se mueven
como fantasmas ante el ojo.
Un proceso
en el clima del mundo
convierte
fantasma en fantasma; cada niño en su madre
se sienta
en su doble sombra.
Un proceso
sopla la luna hacia el sol,
baja las
cortinas raídas de la piel;
y el
corazón entrega a sus muertos.
Dylan Thomas,
Swansea , 1914 – New York
En Collected Poems,
1934-1952, A New Directions Book, New York
Traducción © Silvia Camerotto
A Process in the Weather of the
Heart
A process in the
weather of the heart
Turns damp to dry; the golden shot
Storms in the freezing tomb.
A weather in the quarter of the veins
Turns night to day; blood in their suns
Lights up the living worm.
A process in the eye forwarns
The bones of blindness; and the womb
Drives in a death as life leaks out.
A darkness in the weather of the eye
Is half its light; the fathomed sea
Breaks on unangled land.
The seed that makes a forest of the loin
Forks half its fruit; and half drops down,
Slow in a sleeping wind.
A weather in the flesh and bone
Is damp and dry; the quick and dead
Move like two ghosts before the eye.
A process in the weather of the world
Turns ghost to ghost; each mothered child
Sits in their double shade.
A process blows the moon into the sun,
Pulls down the shabby curtains of the skin;
And the heart gives up its dead.
Turns damp to dry; the golden shot
Storms in the freezing tomb.
A weather in the quarter of the veins
Turns night to day; blood in their suns
Lights up the living worm.
A process in the eye forwarns
The bones of blindness; and the womb
Drives in a death as life leaks out.
A darkness in the weather of the eye
Is half its light; the fathomed sea
Breaks on unangled land.
The seed that makes a forest of the loin
Forks half its fruit; and half drops down,
Slow in a sleeping wind.
A weather in the flesh and bone
Is damp and dry; the quick and dead
Move like two ghosts before the eye.
A process in the weather of the world
Turns ghost to ghost; each mothered child
Sits in their double shade.
A process blows the moon into the sun,
Pulls down the shabby curtains of the skin;
And the heart gives up its dead.
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