From Federico García Lorca's 'Ode to Walt Whitman' (1930).
Y tú, bello Walt Whitman, duerme a orillas del Hudson
con la barba hacia el polo y las manos abiertas.
Arcilla blanda o nieve, tu lengua está llamando
camaradas que velen tu gacela sin cuerpo.
Duerme, no queda nada.
Una danza de muros agita las praderas
y América se anega de máquinas y llanto.
Quiero que el aire fuerte de la noche más honda
quite flores y letras del arco donde duermes
y un niño negro anuncie a los blancos del oro
la llegada del reino de la espiga.
*
And you, beautiful Walt Whitman, sleep on the banks of the Hudson
with your beard toward the pole and with open hands.
In bland clay or in snow, your tongue cries out for
comrades to watch over your gazelle without a body.
Sleep, nothing remains.
A dance of walls agitates the prairies
and America drowns in machines and lamentation.
I want the strong air of the most profound night
to remove the flowers and letters from the arc where you sleep
and a black boy to announce to the whites with their gold
the coming of the reign of corn.
Well, we've got the most epic of reigns of corn a'going here now!
Posted by: jul210s | October 6, 2012 at 03:00 PM