Álvaro Cunqueiro / Walt Whitman

 

Eu son

Eu son Walt Whitman, un cosmos, fillo de Manhattan,
arrebatado, carnal, sensual, que come, bebe e enxendra.
Non son sentimental, nin estou por derriba
de homes e mulleres,
nin arredado deles.
Tampouco son humilde nin orgulloso.

Desatornelade as fechaduras,
desgonzade as portas.

Quen a outro envilece, a min envilece.
Ren se di ou se fai que non reverta en min.

A incansable araña

Vin unha calada e paciente araña
isolada nun pequeno promontorio,
explorando o espacio desolado,
namentres tiraba de si fíos, e fíos, e fíos,
desenrolándoos sempre, presurosa.

E ti, alma de min, onde te atopas,
ceibe, arrodeada por inmensos espacios,
meditando sen cesar, aventurándote,
saíndo a unirte coas esferas,
ata que esté construída a ponte que precisas
ata que a áncora agarre,
ata que o feble fío que tendes
suxete en algún lado, ouh alma miña!

Traduccións de Álvaro Cunqueiro publicadas orixinalmente no Faro de Vigo e despois no libro Flor de diversos, editado por Galaxia en 1991.
[[Leaves of Grass, Walt Whitman, 24 (492-499)] // Walt Whitman am I, a Kosmos, of mighty Manhattan the son,/ Turbulent, fleshy and sensual, eating, drinking and breeding;/ No sentimentalist—no stander above men and women, or apart from them;/ No more modest than immodest.// Unscrew the locks from the doors!/ Unscrew the doors themselves from their jambs!// Whoever degrades another degrades me;/ And whatever is done or said returns at last to me. (…)
[Leaves of Grass, Whispers Of Heavenly Death,] A noiseless, patient spider // A noiseless, patient spider,/ I mark’d, where, on a little promontory, it stood, isolated;/ Mark’d how, to explore the vacant, vast surrounding,/ It launch’d forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself;/ Ever unreeling them –ever tirelessly speeding them.// And you, O my Soul, where you stand,/ Surrounded, surrounded, in measureless oceans of space,/ Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, –seeking the spheres, to connect them;/ Till the bridge you will need, be form’d –till the ductile anchor hold;/ Till the gossamer thread you fling, catch somewhere, O my Soul.]

  Centenario Cunqueiro 1911·2011