10. Coro de las Furias
Guarda mi disse, le feroce Erine
Encontrémonos con él primero como si fuera un sueño,
presencia triple anónima,
memoria hecha sustancia y recuento
de la podredumbre del corazón:
luego en la vigilia ser Ahora demostrable,
parecer
único aspecto de la esencia del
ser,
ataúd para el toque de vida,
Iscariote mismo.
Entonces él repudiará la prolongada
caricia del año
sin esperanza de divorcio,
envidiando la apatía de la idiotez
o el estrés
del remordimiento definitivo.
Él se degradará a una media vida a
no ser que la tensa fuerza
del ímpetu de la mente
recuerde esos demonios o que nuevas
apariciones sostengan
su angustia excesiva.
Él se encogerá, su virilidad lo
abandonará, mudar consciente de sí
la última piel del desollado: la
desesperación.
Él alimentará su terror
cuidadosamente, inseguro
incluso del consuelo de la muerte,
impotente para superar
la dispersión del alma, la
alteración del cerebro.
Basil Bunting, Benwell and
Scotswood, 1900 - Hexham, 1985
en Complete Poems, Bloodaxe Books
Ltd., 1968
versión © Silvia Camerotto
imagen de William Adolphe Borguereau en Wikipedia
10. Chorus of Furies
Guarda mi disse, le feroce Erine
Let us come upon him first as if in a dream,
anonymous triple presence,
memory made substance and tally of heart’s rot:
then in the waking Now be demonstrable, seem
sole aspect of being’s essence,
coffin to the living touch, self’s Iscariot.
Then he will loath the year’s recurrent long caress
without hope of divorce,
envying idiocy’s apathy or the stress
of definite remorse.
He will lapse into a halflife lest the taut force
of the mind’s eagerness
recall those fiends or new apparitions endorse
his excessive distress.
He will shrink, his manhood leave him, slough selfaware
the last skin of the flayed: despair.
He will nurse his terror carefully, uncertain
even of death’s solace,
impotent to outpace
dispersion of the soul, disruption of the brain.
Let us come upon him first as if in a dream,
anonymous triple presence,
memory made substance and tally of heart’s rot:
then in the waking Now be demonstrable, seem
sole aspect of being’s essence,
coffin to the living touch, self’s Iscariot.
Then he will loath the year’s recurrent long caress
without hope of divorce,
envying idiocy’s apathy or the stress
of definite remorse.
He will lapse into a halflife lest the taut force
of the mind’s eagerness
recall those fiends or new apparitions endorse
his excessive distress.
He will shrink, his manhood leave him, slough selfaware
the last skin of the flayed: despair.
He will nurse his terror carefully, uncertain
even of death’s solace,
impotent to outpace
dispersion of the soul, disruption of the brain.
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