Donald Wellman ha traducido «Lápidas» y «Descripción de la mentira» al inglés

'Gravestones' and 'Description of the Lie'.

‘Gravestones’ and ‘Description of the Lie’.

[«Antonio Gamoneda and the ontology of disappearance». A review of ‘Description of the Lie’ and ‘Gravestones’. By Jose-Luis Moctezuma in]

  • Description of the Lie (Descripción de la mentira)
    Antonio Gamoneda. Translated by Donald Wellman.
    Talisman House, 2014, 166 pages, $17.95, ISBN 9781584980926
  • Gravestones (Lápidas)
    Antonio Gamoneda. Translated by Donald Wellman.
    UNO Press, 2009, 158 pages, $18.95, ISBN 9781608010028

Algunos poemas de «Lápidas» / «Gravestones»,
en inglés, traducidos por Donald Wellman:

— — —

Screams on the grass and the purple hurricane.

You spin wrapped in flags and you exhale sweetly.

You obey invisible elders whose songs pass through your tongues.

Oh, youth chosen by my tears.

— — —

Tell me who you are before approaching closer to my heart, your name in the city that remains behind you,

that which was young in your eyes and you still remember before entering the clinics where the nation speaks of your pregnant sisters.

Tell me who you are in those big arms of Jesus Christ, in the maternity jacket, in the sweetness of weary men;

tell me your age facing the walls where Luis and his two souls meet (one that cries and one that studies the agility of death);

tell me your mistake and if there are dead on your tongue,

tell me you name before the abyss, Ursula.

— — —

That air between brilliance and death turns into a substance that days and winds do not manage to erase. These transparent fabrics are the contents of the age.

Exact and incomprehensible signs. In me they have the value of a wound; some numbers burn my eyes.

— — —

Lines of prisoners followed; men heavy with silence and blankets. On that bank of the Bernesga they were regarded with friendship and fear. A woman, exhausted and beautiful, approached with a basket of oranges; each time, the last orange burnt her hands: always there were more prisoners than oranges.

They passed below my balcony and I leaned into the rails whose cold will never leave my face. In long files they were brought to the bridges and they felt the humidity of the river before entering the gloom of San Marcos, into the sad depositories of my shamed city.

(De ‘Lapidas’ / ‘Gravestones’.
Traducción al inglés por: DONALD WELLMAN)



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