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El obrero

Рабочий

Sigue trabajando ante el horno encendido;
es un hombre viejo, escaso de estatura,
y sumiso, por la forma en que acostumbra
a entornar sus párpados enrojecidos.

Los demás trabajadores ya descansan,
él, en cambio, todavía sigue en vela;
se consagra entero a moldear la bala
que me arrancará algún día de esta Tierra.

Ha acabado: su mirada cobra aliento;
regresa; la luna brilla; y a estas horas,
sola en la ancha cama, cálida y con sueño,
todavía está esperándolo su esposa.

Esa bala que ha fundido silbará
por encima de la espuma gris del Dvina;
esa bala que ha fundido se hundirá
en mi pecho, porque vino a por mi vida.

Yo, con la melancolía de la muerte,
caeré, y veré fluir mi vida entera:
a raudales correrá mi sangre ardiente
por la hierba medio seca y polvorienta.

Y por mis amargos y fugaces días,
Dios entonces me dará la paga justa:
quien lo ha obrado, en su camisa desteñida,
es un hombre viejo, escaso de estatura.

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