Muerte de un hijo joven por ahogamiento
Él, que navegó con éxito
por el río hostil de su alumbramiento
zarpó una vez más
hacia un viaje de hallazgos
en la tierra donde una vez floté
pero no pude tocar para reclamarla.
Sus pies resbalaron por la orilla,
la corriente lo arrastró
en un remolino de árboles y hielo en la creciente
y fue a dar a una región lejana,
su cabeza una escafandra;
por las burbujas de fino vidrio de sus ojos
observó, aventurero temerario,
un paisaje más raro que Urano
que todos hemos pisado y algunos recuerdan.
Hubo un accidente; se bloqueó el aire,
él colgaba en el río como un corazón,
recuperaron el cuerpo anegado,
túmulo de mis planes y futuros mapas,
con varas y ganchos
de entre los troncos amontonados.
Era primavera, el sol seguía brillando, el pasto nuevo
se hizo firme;
mis manos destellaban detalles.
Después de un largo viaje me cansé de las olas.
Mis pies tocaron fondo.
Las velas de los sueños se desplomaron,
Se desgarraron.
Yo lo planté en este país
como una bandera.
Margaret Atwood, Ottawa, Canadá, 1939
Death of a Young Son by Drowning
He, who navigated with success
the dangerous river of his own birth
once more set forth
on a voyage of discovery
into the land I floated on
but could not touch to claim.
His feet slid on the bank,
the currents took him;
he swirled with ice and trees in the swollen water
and plunged into distant regions,
his head a bathysphere;
through his eyes' thin glass bubbles
he looked out, reckless adventurer
on a landscape stranger than Uranus
we have all been to and some remember.
There was an accident; the air locked,
he was hung in the river like a heart.
They retrieved the swamped body,
cairn of my plans and future charts,
with poles and hooks
from among the nudging logs.
It was spring, the sun kept shining, the new grass
leapt to solidity;
my hands glistened with details.
After the long trip I was tired of waves.
My foot hit rock. The dreamed sails
collapsed, ragged.
I planted him in this country
like a flag.
He, who navigated with success
the dangerous river of his own birth
once more set forth
on a voyage of discovery
into the land I floated on
but could not touch to claim.
His feet slid on the bank,
the currents took him;
he swirled with ice and trees in the swollen water
and plunged into distant regions,
his head a bathysphere;
through his eyes' thin glass bubbles
he looked out, reckless adventurer
on a landscape stranger than Uranus
we have all been to and some remember.
There was an accident; the air locked,
he was hung in the river like a heart.
They retrieved the swamped body,
cairn of my plans and future charts,
with poles and hooks
from among the nudging logs.
It was spring, the sun kept shining, the new grass
leapt to solidity;
my hands glistened with details.
After the long trip I was tired of waves.
My foot hit rock. The dreamed sails
collapsed, ragged.
I planted him in this country
like a flag.
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