Poesía y traducción

Wiliam Blake


And aged Tiriel stood before the Gates of his beautiful palace
With Myratana, once the Queen of all the western plains;
But now his eyes were darkned, & his wife fading in death.
They stood before their once delightful palace, & thus the Voice
Of aged Tiriel arose, that his sons might hear in their gates:

‘Accursed race of Tiriel, behold your father.
Come forth and look on her that bore you; come you accursed sons!
In my weak arms I here have borne your dying mother.
Come forth, sons of the Curse, come forth, see the death of Myratana!’

His sons ran from their gates & saw their aged parents stand,
And thus the eldest son of Tiriel raised his mighty voice:

‘Old man, unworthy to be calld the father of Tiriel’s race,
For ev’ry one of those thy wrinkles, each of those grey hairs,
Are cruel as death, & as obdurate as the devouring pit,
Why should thy sons care for thy curses, thou accursed man?
Were we not slaves till we rebeld? Who cares for Tiriel’s curse?
His blessing was a cruel curse; his curse may be a blessing.’

He ceast. The aged man raisd up his right hand to the heavens:
His left supported Myratana shrinking in pangs of death.
The orbs of his large eyes he opened, & thus his voice went forth:

‘Serpents, not sons, wreathing around the bones of Tiriel!
Ye worms of death feasting upon your aged parents’ flesh,
Listen & hear your mother’s groans. No more accursed Sons
She bears; she groans not at the birth of Heuxos or Yuva.
These are the groans of death, ye serpents, these are the groans of death.

Nourished with milk, ye serpents, nourishd with mother’s tears & cares,
Look at my eyes, blind as the orbless scull among the stones.
Look at my bald head. Hark, listen, ye serpents! Listen!
What, Myratana? What, my wife? O Soul, O Spirit, O fire!
What, Myratana, art thou dead? Look here, ye serpents look!
The serpents sprung from her own bowels have draind her dry as this.
Curse on your ruthless heads, for I will bury her even here.’

So saying he began to dig a grave with his aged hands,
But Heuxos calld a son of Zazel, to dig their mother a grave:

‘Old cruelty, desist & let us dig a grave for thee.
Thou hast refusd our charity, thou hast refusd our food,
Thou hast refusd our clothes, our beds, our houses for thy dwelling,
Chusing to wander like a Son of Zazel in the rocks.
Why dost thou curse? Is not the curse now come upon your head?
Was it not you enslavd the sons of Zazel, & they have cursd,
And now you feel it? Dig a grave & let us bury our mother.’

‘There take the body, cursed sons, & may the heavens rain wrath
As thick as northern fogs around your gates to choke you up,
That you may lie as now your mother lies, like dogs cast out,
The stink of your dead carcases annoying man & beast,
Till your white bones are bleached with age for a memorial.
No! your remembrance shall perish; for when your carcases
Lie stinking on the earth, the buriers shall arise from the east,
And not a bone of all the sons of Tiriel remain.
Bury your mother; but you cannot bury the curse of Tiriel.’

He ceast & darkling o’er the mountains sought his pathless way.


William Blake es traducido por:

- Jordi Doce

Publicado el 20/5/2010

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