Álvaro Cunqueiro / William Butler Yeats

 

As aves brancas

Se poidésemos ser, miña amada, brancas aves na escuma do mare!
Xa aborrecemos a chama da estrela fugaz denantes de que se muche e apague;
e a chama do luceiro do serán, que colga do bordo do ceo,
espertou nos nosos corazóns, miña amada, unha tristura sen medida.

Unha canseira vén dende os nosos soños, orballando lilios e rosas;
ai, non soñes con eles, miña amada, nin coa luz da fuxitiva estrela
ou coa da azuada que se consume no lusco e fusco,
pois eu quixera que nos trocásemos en brancas aves na escuma do mare: eu e ti!

A min enfeitízanme innumerables illas, e a ribeira de Danaan
onde o tempo nos esquecería, e as dores sempre estarían lonxe;
axiña lonxe da rosa e do lilio, e rozando as chamas quedariamos,
se poidésemos ser, miña amada, somentes brancas aves na escuma do mare!


In Tara’s Halls

Un home houbo que unha vez nos halls de Tara
díxolle a unha muller, axoenllándose: “Déitate tranquila.
Os meus cen anos cúmprense. E penso
que algo pode pasar. E penso
que a aventura da vellice comeza.
A moitas mulleres téñolles dito: ‘Déitate tranquila’,
e dinlles todo canto unha muller percisa,
un teito, bons panos, paixón, quizaves amor,
pro nunca pedín o seu en troques: se o pedira,
envellecera axiña.”
                                    O home despois
foise á Casa Sagra, e de pé entre
o arado dourado e o rastriño, falou
ós que alí estaban, casual moitedume escoitouno:
“Amei a Deus, pro se en troques pedira o seu amor
a Deus ou á muller, o tempo de morrer me chegara.”

Rogou, cumpridos os cento e un anos,
que cavadores e carpinteiros campa e féretro lle fixesen.
Viu que a campa era fonda, o féretro sólido,
axuntou a tódalas xeneracións do seu sangue,
deitouse no féretro, deixou de alentar, e finouse.


O poeta á súa amada

Tráigoche nas miñas reverentes mans
os libros dos meus soños innumerables,
branca muller que a paixón gastou
igual que a marea gasta as areas grises,
e co corazón aínda máis vello que o corno,
cheo a reverquer do pálido lume do tempo.
Branca muller, con innumerables soños
tráigoche aquí o meu canto apaixoado.

Traduccións de Álvaro Cunqueiro publicadas orixinalmente no Faro de Vigo e despois no libro Flor de diversos, editado por Galaxia en 1991.
[The white birds // Would that we were, my beloved, white birds on the foam of the sea!/ We tire of the flame of the meteor, before it can fade and flee;/ And the flame of the blue star of twilight, hung low on the rim of the sky,/ Has awakened in our hearts, my beloved, a sadness that may not die.// A weariness comes from those dreamers, dew-dabbled, the lily and rose;/ Ah, dream not of them, my beloved, the flame of the meteor that goes,/ Or the flame of the blue star that lingers hung low in the fall of the dew:/ For I would we were changed to white birds on the wandering foam: I and you!// I am haunted by numberless islands, and many a Danaan shore,/ Where Time would surely forget us, and Sorrow come near us no more;/ Soon far from the rose and the lily, and fret of the flames would we be,/ Were we only white birds, my beloved, buoyed out on the foam of the sea!
In Tara’s Halls // A man I praise that once in Tara’s Hals/ Said to the woman on his knees, ’Lie still./ My hundredth year is at an end. I think/ That something is about to happen, I think/ That the adventure of old age begins./ To many women I have said, “Lie still”,/ And given everything a woman needs,/ A roof, good clothes, passion, love perhaps,/ But never asked for love; should I ask that,/ I shall be old indeed.’/ Thereon the man/ Went to the Sacred House and stood between/ The golden plough and harrow and spoke aloud/ That all attendants and the casual crowd might hear./ ‘God I have loved, but should I ask return/ Of God or woman, the time were come to die.’// He bade, his hundred and first year at end,/ Diggers and carpenters make grave and coffin;/ Saw that the grave was deep, the coffin sound,/ Summoned the generations of his house,/ Lay in the coffin, stopped his breath and died.
A Poet to His Beloved // Bring you with reverent hands/ The books of my numberless dreams,/ White woman that passion has worn/ As the tide wears the dove-grey sands,/ And with heart more old than the horn/ That is brimmed from the pale fire of time:/ White woman with numberless dreams,/ I bring you my passionate rhyme.]

  Centenario Cunqueiro 1911·2011