"Cuerpo Presente"* inspired by Roy Campbell's correct translation to Federico Garcia Lorca's poem: /body present/ may 2011
*Cuerpo presente
The bull does not know you nor the fig tree,
nor the horses nor the ants of your house.
The child does not know you nor the afternoon
because you have died forever.
The face of the stone does not know you,
nor the black satin where you turn to dust.
Your own mute memory does not know you
because you have died forever.
The autumn will come with spiral shells,
grape vines of fog and huddled mountains,
but no one will want to look into your eyes
because you have died forever.
Because you have died forever,
like all the dead of the earth,
like all the dead that are forgotten
in a heap of carrion dogs.
No one knows you. No. But I sing of you.
I sing for tomorrow of your image and charm.
The maturity of your wisdom.
Your hunger for death and the taste of her lips.
The sadness that befell your valiant joy.
This fourth part of the "Llanto" in which he takes final leave of his friend, ends with a verse which might serve as an epitaph for the poet himself:
It will be long before there is born, if ever, a man so frank, so rich in adventure; I sing your elegance with words than moan!
trans. Roy Campbell, may 5, 2011
my renderiing is best viewed on black
"Cuerpo Presente"* inspired by Roy Campbell's correct translation to Federico Garcia Lorca's poem: /body present/ may 2011
*Cuerpo presente
The bull does not know you nor the fig tree,
nor the horses nor the ants of your house.
The child does not know you nor the afternoon
because you have died forever.
The face of the stone does not know you,
nor the black satin where you turn to dust.
Your own mute memory does not know you
because you have died forever.
The autumn will come with spiral shells,
grape vines of fog and huddled mountains,
but no one will want to look into your eyes
because you have died forever.
Because you have died forever,
like all the dead of the earth,
like all the dead that are forgotten
in a heap of carrion dogs.
No one knows you. No. But I sing of you.
I sing for tomorrow of your image and charm.
The maturity of your wisdom.
Your hunger for death and the taste of her lips.
The sadness that befell your valiant joy.
This fourth part of the "Llanto" in which he takes final leave of his friend, ends with a verse which might serve as an epitaph for the poet himself:
It will be long before there is born, if ever, a man so frank, so rich in adventure; I sing your elegance with words than moan!
trans. Roy Campbell, may 5, 2011
my renderiing is best viewed on black