Rubén Darío

It was a gentle breeze . . .

It was a gentle air of slow turns;
The Fairy Harmony rhythmically flew.
and they went vague phrases and faint sighs,
among the sobs of the cellos.

On the terrace, next to the foliage,

it would be said a tremolo of Aeolian lyres,
when they caressed the silky suits
about the erect stem the tall magnolias.

Marquise Eulalia, laughter and detours

he gave the same time to two rivals:
the blonde viscount of challenges
and the young abbot of the madrigals.

Search, crowned with vine leaves,

laughed in his bearded mask,
and like an ephebe who was a girl,
showed a Diana her naked marble.

And under a thicket, the playground of love,

about the rich plinth in the Ionian style,
with a lit candelabrum in the right hand
the Mercury of Juan de Bologna was flying.

The orchestra was weaving its magical notes,

a chorus of winged sounds could be heard;
gallant pavanas, fleeting gavottes,
they sang the sweet violins of Hungary.

Upon hearing the complaints of his knights

laugh, laugh, laugh the divine Eulalia,
for the arrows of Eros are their treasure,
the belt of Cipria, the spindle of Onfalia.

Woe to him who gathers his honey and phrases!

Woe to he who relies on the song of his love!
With her pretty eyes and her red mouth,
the divine Eulalia laughs, laughs, laughs!

She has blue eyes, she is evil and beautiful;

when he/she looks, he/she pours out strange bright light:

peers into her damp starry pupils

the soul of the blonde crystal of Champagne.

It's party night, and the costume dance

it boasts its glory of worldly triumphs.
The divine Eulalia, dressed in lace,
a flower shatters with its smooth hands.

The harmonic keyboard of her fine laughter

to the cheerful music of a bird it matches,
with the staccatos of a dancer
and the crazy escapes of a schoolgirl.

Loving bird that exhales songs

under the wing sometimes hiding the beak;
what rough disdain she throws under her wing,
under the light wing of the gentle fan!

When at midnight I pluck its notes,

and in golden arpeggios moans Philomela,
and the ivory swan, over the still pond,
like a white gondola leaves its wake,

the cheerful marquise will arrive at the thicket,

thicket that covers the pleasant gazebo
where the arms of a page must embrace her,
that being his page will be his poet.

To the rhythm of a song by an artist from Italy

that in the wandering breeze the orchestra unwinds,
next to the rivals, the divine Eulalia,
the divine Eulalia laughs, laughs, laughs.

Was it, perhaps, in the time of King Louis of France?

sun with a cut of stars, in a field of azure?
When the alcazars filled with fragrance
the regal and pompous rose Pompadour?

Was it when the beautiful one grabbed her skirt,

with nymph's fingers, dancing the minuet,
and from the measures the rhythm continued
About the red heel, pretty and light the foot?

Or when shepherdesses of flowery valleys

they adorned their white lambs with ribbons
and they heard, divine Tirsis of Versailles,
the statements of the gentlemen?

Was it, in that good time of shepherd dukes,

of lovers, princesses, and tender gallants,
when you enter smiles and pearls and flowers
Where are the waistcoats of the chambelanes going?

Was it perhaps in the North or in the Midday?

I know not the time, the day, and the country,
but I know that Eulalia still laughs
And cruel and eternal is her golden laughter!

The swan
It was at a divine hour for humanity.
The swan used to sing only to die.
When the accent of the Wagnerian Swan was heard
it was in the middle of an aurora, it was to revive.

About the storms of the human ocean

the song of the Swan is heard; it does not cease to be heard,
dominating the hammer of the old German Thor
or the trumpets that sing the sword of Argantir.

Oh Swan! Oh sacred bird! If before the white Helena

from Leda's blue egg sprang forth full of grace,
being of Beauty the immortal princess,

under your white wings the new Poetry

conceive in a glory of light and harmony
the eternal and pure Helena that embodies the ideal.

I am the one who just yesterday said . . .

I am the one who just yesterday said
the blue verse and the profane song,
on whose night a nightingale had
what was dawn light in the morning.

I was the owner of my dream garden,

full of roses and wandering swans;
the owner of the doves, the owner
of gondolas and liras in the lakes;

very eighteenth century and very old

and very modern; bold, cosmopolitan;
with strong Hugo and ambiguous Verlaine,
and an endless thirst for illusions.

I have known pain since my childhood,

my youth . . . was mine youth?
Their roses still leave me the fragrance . . .
a fragrance of melancholy . . .

Unbridled foal my instinct launched,

my youth rode a bridleless colt;
drunk and with a dagger at the waist;
if it didn't fall, it was because God is good.

In my garden there was a beautiful statue;

it was judged marble and it was living flesh;
a young soul dwelled within her,
["sentimental","sensible","sensitive"]

And shy before the world, in a way

that enclosed in silence did not exit,
until when in the sweet spring
it was the time of the melody . . .

Time of sunset and discreet kiss;

twilight and retreat hour;
time of madrigal and enchantment,
of 'I adore you', of 'Oh!' and of sigh.

And then it was a game on the dulzaina

of mysterious crystalline shades,
a renewal of notes from Greek bread
and a scattering of Latin music.

With such spirit and with such vibrant fervor,

that the statue was born suddenly
on the virile thigh goat legs
and two satyr horns on the forehead.

Like the Góngora Galatea

I loved the Verlenian marchioness,
and thus I gathered to the divine passion
a sensual human hyperesthesia;

all anxiety, all fervor, pure sensation

and natural vigor; and without falsehood,
and without comedy and without literature . . .
If there is a sincere soul, it is mine.

The ivory tower tempted my longing;

I wanted to shut myself inside myself,
and I was hungry for space and thirsty for sky
from the shadows of my own abyss.

Like the sponge that salt saturates

in the juice of the sea, it was sweet and tender
my heart, swollen with bitterness
through the world, the flesh and hell.

But, by the grace of God, in my conscience

the Good knew how to choose the best part
and if there was harsh frost in my existence,
The Art sweetened all bitterness.

I freed my intellect from thinking low.

bañó el agua castalia el alma mía,
my heart wandered and brought
de la sagrada selva la armonía.
 Oh, the sacred jungle! Oh, the deep
emanation of the divine heart
of the sacred jungle! Oh, the fruitful
source whose virtue conquers fate!

Ideal forest that complicates reality,

there the body burns and lives and Psyche flies;
while below the satyr copulates,
blue drink unravels Philomela.

Dream pearl and loving music

in the flowering dome of the green laurel,
Sutil hipsipila flutters on the rose,
and the mouth of the faun bites the nipple.

There goes the god in heat after the female,

and the cane of Pan rises from the mud;
eternal life sows its seeds,
and the harmony of the great Whole emerges.

The soul that enters there must go naked,

trembling with desire and holy fever,
about thorny thistle and sharp spine:
this is how he/she dreams, this is how he/she vibrates, and this is how he/she sings.

Life, light, and truth, such a triple flame

produce the infinite inner flame.
Pure art exclaims like Christ:
I am the light and the truth and the life!

And life is a mystery, the light blinds

and the inaccessible truth astonishes;
the austere perfection is never surrendered,
and the ideal secret sleeps in the shadow.

That is why being sincere is being powerful;

of nakedness that the star shines;
the water speaks the soul of the fountain
in the voice of crystal that flows from her.

Such was my attempt, to make the pure soul

mine, a star, a sound source,
with the horror of literature
and crazy with twilight and dawn.
Of the blue twilight that sets the tone
that the celestial ecstasy inspires,
mist and minor tone—full flute!
and Aurora, daughter of the Sun—all the lyre!

A stone passed that was thrown by a sling;

An arrow passed that sharpened a violent one.
The stone from the sling went to the wave,
and the arrow of hatred should go to the wind.

The virtue is in being calm and strong;

with the inner fire everything burns;
se triunfa del rencor y de la muerte,
and to Bethlehem ... the caravan passes!
Autumn Song in Spring
Youth, divine treasure,
You're leaving never to return!
When I want to cry, I don't cry...
and sometimes I cry unintentionally...

The sky blue has been plural

history of my heart.
She was a sweet girl, in this
world of mourning and affliction.

I looked like the pure dawn;

she smiled like a flower.
Her hair was dark
made of night and pain.

I was shy like a child.

She, of course, was,
for my love made of ermine,
Herodias and Salome...

Youth, divine treasure,

You're leaving never to return...!
When I want to cry, I don't cry,
and sometimes I cry without wanting to...

The other was more sensitive,

and more comforting and more
flattering and expressive,
which I never thought I would find.

Well, to her continuous tenderness

a violent passion united.
In a pure gauze peplos
a bacchant was wrapping herself...

In his arms, he took my dream.

and he rocked him like a baby...
And he killed him sad and small,
lack of light, lack of faith...

Youth, divine treasure,

You left never to return!
When I want to cry, I don't cry,
and sometimes I cry without wanting to...

Another judged that it was my mouth

the case of his passion;
and that would gnaw at me, crazy,
with its teeth the heart.

Putting in an excessive love

the gaze of his will,
while they were hugging and kissing
synthesis of eternity;

and of our light flesh

always imagine an Eden,
without thinking that spring
and the meat also ends...

Youth, divine treasure,

You're leaving and not coming back!
When I want to cry, I don't cry,
And sometimes I cry without wanting to!

And the others! in so many climates,

in so many lands, they are always,
no excuses for my rhymes,
ghosts of my heart.

I searched for the princess in vain

that was sad to wait.
Life is hard. Bitter and weighs heavy.
There is no princess left to sing about!

But despite the stubborn time,

my thirst for love has no end;
with gray hair I approach
to the rose bushes of the garden...

Youth, divine treasure,

you are leaving never to return...
When I want to cry, I do not cry,
and sometimes I cry without wanting to...

But the golden dawn is mine!

I pursue a form...
I pursue a form that does not find my style,
thinking button that seeks to be the rose;
It is announced with a kiss that rests on my lips
the impossible hug of the Venus de Milo.

Green palms adorn the white peristyle;

the stars have predicted to me the vision of the Goddess;
and in my soul rests the light, as it rests
the bird of the moon over a calm lake.

And I find nothing but the word that escapes,

the melodic initiation that flows from the flute
and the boat of dreams that navigates in space;

and under the window of my Sleeping Beauty,

the continuous sob of the fountain's jet
and the neck of the great white swan
that interrogates me.

A Roosevelt
It is with the voice of the Bible, or a verse from Walt Whitman,
What would it take to reach you, Hunter!
Primitive and modern, simple and complicated,
with one from Washington and four from Nemrod!
You are the United States,
you are the future invader
of the naive America that has indigenous blood,
who still prays to Jesus Christ and still speaks in Spanish.

You are a proud and strong example of your species;

You are cultured, you are skillful; you oppose Tolstoy.
And taming horses or killing tigers,
you are an Alexander- Nebuchadnezzar.
You are an energy teacher.
as the crazy people say today.)

Do you think life is fire,

that progress is eruption;
where do you put the bullet
the future you put.
No.

The United States is powerful and large.

When they tremble, there is a deep shiver.
that goes through the enormous vertebrae of the Andes.
If you shout, it sounds like the roar of the lion.
Yes, Hugo said it to Grant: The stars are yours.
(Only shines, rising, the Argentine sun
and the Chilean star rises...) You are rich.
You unite the worship of Hercules with the worship of Mammon;
and illuminating the path of easy conquest,
Freedom raises its torch in New York.

But our America, which had poets

since the old times of Netzahualcoyotl,
who has preserved the footprints of the great Bacchus,
that the panic alphabet learned;
who consulted the stars, who knew Atlantis
whose name reaches us resonating in Plato,
that since the remote moments of his life
live a life of light, of fire, of perfumes, of love,
the America of the great Moctezuma, of the Inca,
the fragrant America of Christopher Columbus,
Catholic America, Spanish America,
the America in which the noble Guatemoc said:
"I am not on a bed of roses"; that America
that trembles with hurricanes and lives on love;
men with Saxon eyes and a barbaric soul, live.
And dreams. And loves, and vibrates; and is a daughter of the Sun.

Be careful. Long live Spanish America!

There are a thousand loose puppies of the Spanish Lion.
It would be necessary, Roosevelt, to be God himself,
the terrible Rifler and the strong Hunter,
to be able we have in your iron claws.

And, well, you have everything, one thing is missing: God!

The fatal
Blessed is the tree that is barely sensitive,
and more the hard stone because it no longer feels,
for there is no greater pain than the pain of being alive,
There is no greater sorrow than conscious life.

To be, and to know nothing, and to be without a certain course,

and the fear of having been and a future terror...
and the certain fright of being dead tomorrow,
and suffer for life and for the shadow and for

what we do not know and barely suspect,

and the charm that tempts with its fresh clusters,
and the grave that awaits with its funereal branches,
and not knowing where we are going,
neither where we come from...!

Tropical afternoon
It is a gray and sad afternoon.
Did you see the velvet sea?
and you saw the deep sky
of mourning.

From the abyss rises

the bitter and loud complaint.
The wave, when the wind sings,
cry.

The violins of the mist

they greet the dying sun.
Salmodia of white foam;
have mercy.

The harmony floods the sky,

and the breeze will carry
the sad and deep song
of the sea.

From the clarion of the horizon

a rare symphony emerges,
as if the voice of the mountain
vibrate.

What if it were the invisible...

what if the sound was rude
that a terrible lion gave to the wind.