To Pepe Cienfuegos
Over the confused, aching horizon
night was coming, pregnant with stars.
I, like the long-bearded wizard in fairy tales,
knew the languages of flowers and stones.
I learned secrets of melancholy,
told by cypresses, nettles, and ivies;
I heard about the dream from the lips of the amaryllis,
with the irises I sang calm songs.
In the ancient forest, full of blackness,
they would all show me their true souls:
the pinewood, drunk on fragrance and sound;
the old olive trees, laden with knowledge;
the dead poplars, nesting places for ants;
the moss, snowy with white violets.
Everything would speak softly to my heart
as it trembled on the threads of rustling silk
with which water envelops stationary things
like a spiderweb of eternal harmony.
The roses were dreaming on the lyre,
the holm oaks weave the gold of legends,
and amid the virile sadness of the oaks
the junipers told of village fears.
I understand all the passion of the forest:
rhythm of the leaf, rhythm of the star.
But tell me, cedars, whether my heart
will sleep in the arms of perfect light.
I know the lyre that you foresee, rose;
I fashioned its strings from my dead life.
Tell me in what pool I can abandon it,
the way that old passions are left behind!
I know the mystery that you sing, cypress;
I am your brother in night and sorrow;
tenemos la entraña cuajada de nidos,
tú de ruiseñores y yo de tristezas!
¡Conozco tu encanto sin fin, padre olivo,
al darnos la sangre que extraes de la Tierra:
como tú, yo extraigo con mi sentimiento
el óleo bendito
que tiene la idea!
Todos me abrumáis con vuestras canciones;
yo sólo os pregunto por la mía incierta;
ninguno queréis sofocar las ansias
de este fuego casto
que el pecho me quema.
¡Oh laurel divino, de alma inaccesible,
siempre silencioso,
lleno de nobleza!
¡Vierte en mis oídos tu historia divina,
tu sabiduría profunda y sincera!
¡Árbol que produces frutos de silencio,
maestro de besos y mago de orquestas,
formado del cuerpo rosado de Dafne
con savia potente de Apolo en tus venas!
¡Oh gran sacerdote del saber antiguo!
¡Oh mudo solemne cerrado a las quejas!
¡Todos tus hermanos del bosque me hablan;
sólo tú, severo, mi canción desprecias!
Acaso, ¡oh maestro del ritmo!, medites
lo inútil del triste llorar del poeta.
Acaso tus hojas, manchadas de luna,
pierdan la ilusión de la primavera.
La dulzura tenue del anochecer,
cual negro rocío, tapizó la senda,
teniendo de inmenso dosel a la noche,
que venía grave, preñada de estrellas.
our insides are filled with nests,
yours with nightingales, mine with sadness!
I know your limitless delight, father olive tree,
in giving us the blood you extract from the Earth:
like you, with my feelings I extract
the holy oil
contained in the idea!
You all overwhelm me with your songs;
I only ask you about my own uncertain one;
not one of you wishes to smother the anxiety
of this chaste fire
which is burning my breast.
O divine laurel with the unreachable soul,
you that are always silent,
full of nobility!
Pour into my ears your divine story,
your profound, sincere wisdom!
You tree that produce fruits of silence,
teacher of kisses and wizard of orchestras,
fashioned from Daphne’s pink body
with the potent sap of Apollo in your veins!
O high priest of ancient knowledge!
O solemn mute, impervious to laments!
All your brothers of the forest speak to me;
only you severely scorn my song!
Perhaps, O teacher of rhythm, you are meditating
on the pointlessness of the poet’s sad weeping.
Perhaps your leaves, flecked with moonlight,
are losing the hopes they held in springtime.
The delicate softness of the nightfall,
like black dew, carpeted the path,
having the night as an immense canopy,
the night which came solemnly, pregnant with stars.