Versos

"Yo no protesto pormigo porque soy muy poca cosa, reclamo porque a la fosa van las penas del mendigo. A Dios pongo por testigo de que no me deje mentir, no hace falta salir un metro fuera de la casa para ver lo que aquí nos pasa y el dolor que es el vivir." (Violeta Parra en Décimas, autobiografía en versos)

domingo, 29 de abril de 2012

Return to be 17 (Volver a los 17 English translation)


Return to be 17, after living a century
is like reading signs without being wise or competent,
return to be, suddenly, as fragile as a second,
return to feel deeply as a kid in front of God,
that is what I feel in this fertile time.

It's getting tangled, it's getting, as the ivy on the wall,
it goes sprouting, sprouting like the little moss on the stone,
yes, yes, yes.

My regressed step when yours goes ahead,
The alliance arc has penetrated in my nest,
with all its colors, it has walked through my veins
and even the tough chains which destiny ties us with
are like a fine diamond which enlightens my serene soul.

It's getting tangled, it's getting, as the ivy on the wall,
it goes sprouting, sprouting like the little moss on the stone,
yes, yes, yes.

Which feeling has achieved, knowledge has not yet,
either the clearest procedure,
either the widest thought.
Moment changes everything,
such condescending wizard
keeps us away, sweetly, from rancors and violence.
Only love with its science becomes us so naive.

It's getting tangled, it's getting as the ivy on the wall,
it goes sprouting, sprouting like the little moss on the stone,
yes, yes, yes.

Love is a whirlwind of original pureness.
Even the fierce animal whispers its sweet trill,
(love) stops pilgrims, sets prisoners free,
Love with its cares becomes old people into child ones.
And the bad people, only by love, become pure and sincere.

 It's getting, it's getting, tangled as the ivy on the wall,
it goes sprouting, sprouting like the little moss on the stone,
yes, yes, yes.

The window opened wide as if by magic,
love came in with its mantle, like a warm mourning,
to the sound of its beautiful reveille,
made the jasmine sprout out,
flying such as seraph, wore the sky with earrings.
And the cherub became my age into seventeen.

It's getting tangled, it's getting, as the ivy on the wall,
it goes sprouting, sprouting like the little moss on the stone,
yes, yes, yes.


No hay comentarios:

Publicar un comentario