Poem of Miguel Hernández
The wounded man Man lies in wait, 1939 For the wall of a field hospital I The wounded stretch across the fields of battle. And from that stretched-out mass of fighters’ bodies rise hot springs like a wheatfield, and they stretch up in hoarse jets. Blood always rains face up, towards the sky. And the wounds ring out, just like horns, when those wounds have the speed of flight, the essence of waves. Blood smells of the sea, it tastes of the sea and of a wine-cellar. The cellar of the sea, of wild wine, explodes there where the wounded man, throbbing, drowns, and flowers, and finds himself. I am wounded, look at me: I need more lives. The life contained within me is too small for the great mission of blood which I yearn to lose through my wounds. Tell me who has not been wounded. My life is a wound of joyful youth. Have pity on he who is not wounded, who never feels wounded by life, nor ever lays himself down to rest happily wounded! If we go with joy towards the hospitals, they become orchards of half-open wounds, of oleander flowering before the surgery of blood-spattered doors. II For freedom I bleed, I fight, I keep on living. For freedom, my eyes and my hands, like a tree made flesh, generous and captive, I give to the surgeons. For freedom I feel more heart than sand in my breast: my veins give foam, and I go into the hospitals, and I go into the cotton sheets as into lilies. For freedom I tear myself away, with bullets, from those who have toppled its statue into the mud. And I tear myself away, with blows, from my feet, from my hands, from my home, from everything. For where empty eye-sockets dawn, freedom will place two stones looking towards the future, and will make new arms and new legs grow in the felled flesh. Relics of the body I lose with each wound will sprout again with wings of sap that has no autumn. For I am like the felled tree, I sprout again: for I still have life. | El herido El hombre acecha, 1939 Para el muro de un hospital de sangre I Por los campos luchados se extienden los heridos. Y de aquella extensión de cuerpos luchadores salta un trigal de chorros calientes, extendidos en roncos surtidores. La sangre llueve siempre boca arriba, hacia el cielo. Y las heridas suenan, igual que caracolas, cuando hay en las heridas celeridad de vuelo, esencia de las olas. La sangre huele a mar, sabe a mar y a bodega. La bodega del mar, del vino bravo, estalla allí donde el herido palpitante se anega, y florece, y se halla. Herido estoy, miradme: necesito más vidas. La que contengo es poca para el gran cometido de sangre que quisiera perder por las heridas. Decid quién no fue herido. Mi vida es una herida de juventud dichosa. ¡Ay de quien no esté herido, de quien jamás se siente herido por la vida, ni en la vida reposa herido alegremente! Si hasta a los hospitales se va con alegría, se convierten en huertos de heridas entreabiertas, de adelfos florecidos ante la cirugía. de ensangrentadas puertas. II Para la libertad sangro, lucho, pervivo. Para la libertad, mis ojos y mis manos, como un árbol carnal, generoso y cautivo, doy a los cirujanos. Para la libertad siento más corazones que arenas en mi pecho: dan espumas mis venas, y entro en los hospitales, y entro en los algodones como en las azucenas. Para la libertad me desprendo a balazos de los que han revolcado su estatua por el lodo. Y me desprendo a golpes de mis pies, de mis brazos, de mi casa, de todo. Porque donde unas cuencas vacías amanezcan, ella pondrá dos piedras de futura mirada y hará que nuevos brazos y nuevas piernas crezcan en la carne talada. Retoñarán aladas de savia sin otoño reliquias de mi cuerpo que pierdo en cada herida. Porque soy como el árbol talado, que retoño: porque aún tengo la vida. |
Fuente:
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