*Blogger’s note: I know I have to work on this poem. The Spanish original version has a musicality that is really difficult to grasp in the translation. If you have any suggestions, please leave a comment below ~’@
by José Martí
Under the shadow of a wing, this tale
on a flower I shall tell:
It was the girl from Guatemala
of love who fell.
The bouquets were made of iris,
trimmed in mignonettes
and jasmine; she was lain and buried
in a silk coffin.
… She gave him, the forgetful,
a scented pillow;
he came back married;
of love she died.
Carrying her on their shoulders
were bishops and ambassadors;
behind them the town,
as a crowd,
was all covered in blossoms.
… Wanting to see him, she
came out unto the balcony;
he came back with his wife;
of love she died.
Like a burning iron
the last kiss farewell,
it was her brow,
the brow I’ve most loved in my life!
To the river she went
late in the day,
the doctor brought her out dead,
they say of cold she passed away,
I know of love she died.
In the cold vault, there,
she was lain between two benches;
I kissed her frozen hand,
my lips grazed her white shoes.
Quiet, at dusk,
the gravedigger called;
I have never seen
the one who died of love!
—–
Por José Martí
Quiero, a la sombra de un ala,
contar este cuento en flor:
la niña de Guatemala,
la que se murió de amor.
Eran de lirios los ramos,
y las orlas de reseda
y de jazmín: la enterramos
en una caja de seda.
…Ella dio al desmemoriado
una almohadilla de olor:
él volvió, volvió casado:
ella se murió de amor.
Iban cargándola en andas
obispos y embajadores:
detrás iba el pueblo en tandas,
todo cargado de flores.
…Ella, por volverlo a ver,
salió a verlo al mirador:
él volvió con su mujer:
ella se murió de amor.
Como de bronce candente
al beso de despedida
era su frente, ¡la frente
que más he amado en mi vida!
…Se entró de tarde en el río,
la sacó muerta el doctor:
dicen que murió de frío:
yo sé que murió de amor.
Allí, en la bóveda helada,
la pusieron en dos bancos:
besé su mano afilada,
besé sus zapatos blancos.
Callado, al oscurecer,
me llamó el enterrador:
¡nunca más he vuelto a ver
a la que murió de amor!
