Rosa, rosae, rosae, rosam, rosa...
Rosa Nocturna
por
Xavier Villaurrutia
Yo también hablo de la rosa.
Pero mi rosa no es la rosa fría
ni la de piel de niño,
ni la rosa que gira
tan lentamente que su movimiento
es una misteriosa forma de la quietud.
No es la rosa sedienta,
ni la sangrante llaga,
ni la rosa coronada de espinas,
ni la rosa de la resurrección.
No es la rosa de pétalos desnudos,
ni la rosa encerada,
ni la llama de seda,
ni tampoco la rosa llamarada.
No es la rosa veleta,
ni la ulcera secreta,
ni la rosa puntual que da la hora,
ni la brujula rosa marinera.
No, no es la rosa rosa
sino la rosa increada,
la sumergida rosa,
la nocturna,
la rosa inmaterial,
la rosa hueca.
Es la rosa del tacto en las tinieblas,
es la rosa que avanza enardecida,
la rosa de rosadas uñas,
la rosa yema de los dedos ávidos,
la rosa digital
la rosa ciega.
Es la rosa moldura del oído,
la rosa oreja,
la espiral del ruido,
la rosa concha siempre abandonada
en la más alta espuma de la almohada.
Es la rosa encarnada de la boca,
la rosa que habla despierta
como si estuviera dormida.
Es la rosa entreabierta
de la que mana sombra,
la rosa entraña
que se pliega y expande
evocada, invocada, abocada,
es la rosa labial,
la rosa herida.
Es la rosa que abre los parpados,
la rosa vigilante, desvelada,
la rosa del insomnio desojada.
Es la rosa del humo,
la rosa de ceniza,
la negra rosa de carbón diamante
que silenciosa horada las tinieblas
y no ocupa lugar en el espacio.
posted by Arturo Vasquez @ 11:46 AM
4 Comments:
Translation pending.
Image credit: Salvador Dali, Meditative Rose
Aw, I read the title and I was expecting a discourse on Latin grammar, and all I got was a crummy poem that I can't even read!
Learn Spanish!
If you know Latin, it should be a cinch...
No really, I am just too busy to translate it right now.
Translation:
The Nocturnal Rose
I too speak of the rose.
But mine is not the cold rose
Nor the child's skin,
Nor the rose that turns
So slowly that its movement
Is a mysterious form of stillness.
It is not the thristy rose,
Nor the bloody wound,
Nor the rose crowned with thorns Nor the rose of the resurrection.
It is not the rose of naked petals
Nor the enclosed rose,
Nor the silk flame,
Nor is it the flaming rose.
It is not the velvet rose,
Nor the secret ulcer,
Nor the punctual rose telling time,
Nor the maritime bubble rose.
No, it is not the rose rose
But rather the uncreated rose,
The nocturnal,
The immaterial rose,
The empty rose.
It is the touch rose in darkness,
The rose that advances swiftly,
The rose with pink nails,
The rose yoke of vibrant fingers,
The digital rose,
The blind rose.
It is the rose moulding of hearing,
The rose ear,
The noise spiral,
The rose shell always abandoned
In the highest foam of the pillow.
It is the rose enfleshed in the mouth,
The rose that speaks awake
As if asleep.
It is the half-opened rose
Of that which seeps shadow,
The rose gut
That folds and expands,
Evoked, invoked, doomed,
It is the lip rose,
The wounded rose,
It is the rose that opens eyes,
The vigilant rose, awake,
The eyeless insomniac rose.
It is the rose of smoke,
The ash rose,
The black rose of carbon diamond
That silently pierces the darkness
And does not take up space.
-translation mine
Post a Comment
<< Home