Revista Nova et Vetera

Ven al parque que dicen muerto (Stefan George)

Ven al parque que dicen muerto,
y mira el centelleo
de lejanas costas sonrientes;
las puras nubes
con inesperado azul
difuminan una luz en el estanque
y en senderos coloridos.
 
Ahí toman el suave gris
y el amarillo intenso
de abedules y arbustos,
dulce es la brisa;
las rosas tardías
no se marchitaron del todo,
así que bésalas
y trenza una corona con ellas.
 
Las últimas margaritas
no olvidarás,
ni el púrpura en los zarcillos
de la vid silvestre.
Los restos de la vida verde
retuércelos suavemente
sobre el rostro otoñal.

Chrysalides (José Asunción Silva)
 
When the sickly girl
went out a certain morning
and walked, insecurely,
through the neighboring mountain
she brought,
hidden in a bouquet of flowers,
a chrysalis
that she put near her little
white bed.
 
A few days later,
while she was dying,
everyone looked at her
with eyes full of tears;
In the moment she died
we heard a soft sound
of wings
and we saw escaping
through the old window
a small
golden butterfly
 
I searched with haste
for the empty insect’s prison;
when I found it
I saw the girl’s
pale, withered forehead
and thought:
If the winged butterfly,
when it leaves its sad prison,
encounters the light
and the immense space
and the rural winds,
when they leave their prison
what do souls encounter?

Traducciones por Tomás F. Molina (2018).