| Margaret Atwood -Orpheus (1)- |
| Wednesday, May 03, 2006 |
Orpheus (1)
Margaret Atwood (1939 - )
You walked in front of me,
pulling me back out
to the green light that had once
grown fangs and killed me.
I was obedient, but
numb, like an arm
gone to sleep; the return
to time was not my choice.
By then I was used to silence.
Though something stretched between us
like a whisper, like a rope:
my former name,
drawn tight.
You had your old leash
with you, love you might call it,
and your flesh voice.
Before your eyes you held steady
the image of what you wanted
me to become: living again.
It was this hope of yours that kept me following.
I was your hallucination, listening
and floral, and you were singing me:
already new skin was forming on me
within the luminous misty shroud
of my other body; already
there was dirt on my hands and I was thirsty.
I could see only the outline
of your head and shoulders,
black against the cave mouth,
and so could not see your face
at all, when you turned
and called to me because you had
already lost me. The last
I saw of you was a dark oval.
Though I knew how this failure
would hurt you, I had to
fold like a gray moth and let go.
You could not believe I was more than your echo.
Orfeo (1)
Delante mío caminabas,
atrayéndome
hacia la verde luz que alguna vez
me asesinó con sus colmillos.
Insensible te seguí,
como un brazo dormido y obediente
pero no fui yo quien quiso
volver al tiempo
Había llegado a amar el silencio,
pero mi antiguo nombre era una cuerda
o un susurro tendido
entre nosotros.
Y estaba tu amor,
las viejas riendas de tu amor,
tu voz corpórea...
Ante tus ojos mantenías
la imagen de tu deseo, que era yo,
viva otra vez.
Y por esta esperanza tuya continué,
y así fui
tu alucinación, floral
y oyente
tú me creabas
al cantarme y una piel nueva me crecía
en mi otro cuerpo, envuelto en niebla,
y tenía ya sed, y manos sucias,
y veía ya,
perfilados contra la boca de la gruta,
el perfil de tu cabeza y de tus hombros
cuando te diste vuelta para llamarme
y me perdiste...
Así que no llegué a ver tu rostro,
sólo un ovalo oscuro,
y a pesar de sentir todo el dolor
de tu derrota, debí rendirme,
como se rinden las mariposas de la noche.
Tú creíste
que sólo fui el eco
de tu canto.
Versión de Amparo ArróspideLabels: Margaret Atwood |
posted by Alfil @ 10:23 AM  |
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