Esquina de Buenos Aires
Emilio Centurión (Argentina, 1894 - 1970)
Óleo sobre cartón.
To Beatriz Bibiloni
Webster de Bullrich
I
The useless dawn finds me in a deserted streetcorner; I have outlived
the night.
Nights are proud waves: darkblue topheavy waves laden with all hues of deep spoil, laden with things unlikely and desirable.
Nights have a habit of mysterious gifts and refusals, of things half given away, half, withheld, of joys with a dark hemisphere. Nights act that way, I tell you.
The surge, that night, left me the customary shreds and odd ends: some hated friends to chat with, music for dreams, and the smoking of bitter ashes. The things my hungry heart has no use for.
The big wave brought you.
Words, any words, your laughter; and you so lazily and incessantly beautiful. We talked and you have forgotten the words.
The shattering dawn finds me in a deserted street of my city.
Your profile turned away, the sounds that go to make your name, the lilt of your laughter: these are illustrious toys you have left me.
I turn them over in the dawn, I lose them, I find them; I tell them to the few stray stars dogs and the few stray stars of the dawn.
Your dark rich life…
I must get at you, somehow: I put away those illustrious toys you have left me, I want your hidden look, your real smile –that lonely, mocking smile your cool mirror knows.
Nights are proud waves: darkblue topheavy waves laden with all hues of deep spoil, laden with things unlikely and desirable.
Nights have a habit of mysterious gifts and refusals, of things half given away, half, withheld, of joys with a dark hemisphere. Nights act that way, I tell you.
The surge, that night, left me the customary shreds and odd ends: some hated friends to chat with, music for dreams, and the smoking of bitter ashes. The things my hungry heart has no use for.
The big wave brought you.
Words, any words, your laughter; and you so lazily and incessantly beautiful. We talked and you have forgotten the words.
The shattering dawn finds me in a deserted street of my city.
Your profile turned away, the sounds that go to make your name, the lilt of your laughter: these are illustrious toys you have left me.
I turn them over in the dawn, I lose them, I find them; I tell them to the few stray stars dogs and the few stray stars of the dawn.
Your dark rich life…
I must get at you, somehow: I put away those illustrious toys you have left me, I want your hidden look, your real smile –that lonely, mocking smile your cool mirror knows.
A Beatriz Bibiloni Webster de Bullrich
I
El alba inútil me sorprende en una esquina
desierta; sobreviví a la noche.
Las noches son como olas orgullosas; olas azul
oscuro, de pesadas crestas, cargadas con los tonos de profundos despojos,
cargadas de improbables y deseables cosas.
Las noches acostumbran misteriosos dones y
rechazos, de cosas que se dan por la mitad y a medias se retienen, de delicias
que albergan un hemisferio oscuro. Así obra la noche, yo te digo.
La marea, esa noche, me dejó los jirones y
retazos disjuntos de costumbre: algunas amistades que odio, para charlar;
música para sueños; la humareda de cenizas amargas. Las cosas a las que mi
corazón hambriento no puede hallarles uso. La gran ola te trajo.
Palabras y palabras, cualesquiera, tu risa; y
vos tan perezosa e incesantemente bella. Hablamos, y olvidaste las palabras.
El alba destructora me encuentra en una calle
desierta, en mi ciudad.
Tu perfil que se aleja, los sonidos que
conforman tu nombre, la cadencia de tu risa: esos son los ilustres juguetes que
dejaste para mí.
Los revuelvo en el alba, los pierdo, los
encuentro; se los cuento a los escasos perros vagabundos y a las pocas
estrellas vagabundas del alba.
Tu rica vida oscura…
Debo alcanzarte, de algún modo; aparto estos
ilustres juguetes que dejaste para mi, quisiera tu mirada subrepticia, tu
sonrisa real; esa sonrisa solitaria y mordaz que la frialdad de tu espejo
conoce.
Traducción de Ezequiel Zaidenwerg
De El otro, el mismo, 1964.
De El otro, el mismo, 1964.
Jorge Luis Borges (Argentina, 1899 - 1986).
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