27.10.12

Sylvia Plath. Apprehensions*

Temores

Hay una pared blanca sobre la que el cielo se crea a sí mismo-
Infinita, verde, intocablemente intocable.
Los ángeles se bañan en ella, y las estrellas, con indiferencia también.
Son mi medio.
El sol se disuelve contra esa pared, desangrándose de sus luces.

Una pared gris ahora, desgarrada y sangrienta.
¿No hay una manera de salir de la mente?
Los pasos tras de mí se concentran en un pozo.
No hay arboles ni pájaros en este mundo,
solo hay amargura en él.

La pared roja se estremece continuamente:
un puño rojo se abre y se cierra,
dos bolsas grises de papel-
Esto es de lo que estoy hecha, esto, y un terror
De ser llevada fuera bajo una lluvia de cruces y devociones.

En una pared negra, pájaros irreconocibles
giran sus cabezas y lloran.
¡No hablan de inmortalidad!
los fríos espacios en blanco se nos acercan:
vienen con mucha prisa.



Apprehensions

There is this white wall, above which the sky creates itself –
Infinite, green, utterly untouchable.
Angels swim in it, and the stars, in indifference also.
They are my medium.
The sun dissolves on this wall, bleeding its lights.

A grey wall now, clawed and bloody.
Is there no way out of the mind?
Steps at my back spiral into a well.
There are no trees or birds in this world,
There is only sourness.

This red wall winces continually:
A red fist, opening and closing,
Two grey, papery bags –
This is what i am made of, this, and a terror
Of being wheeled off under crosses and rain of pieties.

On a black wall, unidentifiable birds
Swivel their heads and cry.
There is no talk of immorality amoun these!
Cold blanks approach us:
They move in a hurry.



De "Árboles en invierno"

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en versión original... dijo...

Apprehensions


There is this white wall, above which the sky creates itself –
Infinite, green, utterly untouchable.
Angels swim in it, and the stars, in indifference also.
They are my medium.
The sun dissolves on this wall, bleeding its lights.

A grey wall now, clawed and bloody.
Is there no way out of the mind?
Steps at my back spiral into a well.
There are no trees or birds in this world,
There is only sourness.

This red wall winces continually:
A red fist, opening and closing,
Two grey, papery bags –
This is what i am made of, this, and a terror
Of being wheeled off under crosses and rain of pieties.

On a black wall, unidentifiable birds
Swivel their heads and cry.
There is no talk of immorality amoun these!
Cold blanks approach us:
They move in a hurry.