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La bóveda escarlata con naranja...
El viento racheado bajo el cielo
agita a los serbales que sangrando
me ofrecen sus racimos. Voy siguiendo,
persigo a algún caballo que se escapa
y paso junto al solo invernadero,
los hierros de la verja de este parque
y el agua de los cisnes. A mi lado,
se afana, vuela un perro, largo manto,
de pelo rubicundo. Yo le quiero.
Mi perro es en mi alma más que hermano,
jamás podré olvidarle cuando muera.
Mas sigue galopando el fugitivo,
sus cascos se aceleran resonando,
del suelo levantando polvo, arena.
¡Jamás alcanzarás a aquel caballo,
al árabe inflamado en su carrera!
Mejor renuncio ahora. Jadeante,
me siento a descansar y tomo aliento
sobre una piedra plana como mesa.
Admiro el rojo cielo y sus naranjas,
los gritos estridentes de este viento.
El ánimo embotado y como obtuso
escucho, miro, escucho y me sorprendo.

Другие переводы:

  • Английский
    Бартон Раффел, Алла Бураго
  • Джон Кобли
  • Румынский
    Лео Бутнару

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