Blues fúnebre

W. H. Auden. Foto: © Jill Krementz

BLOQUEADE os reloxos, descolgade o teléfono;
para que o can non ladre botádelle o sobexo.
Enmudecede os pianos e, con mainos redobres,
sacade o cadaleito. Que as carpideiras veñan.

Que as avionetas planen un loito sobre nós
bosquexando no ceo a frase: «Morreu el».
Poñédelle un crespón ás pombas no pescozo
e que os gardas de tráfico vistan con luvas negras.

Foi meu norte, meu sur, meu leste, meu oeste,
os días laborables, o lecer dos domingos,
os meus seráns e noites, o arrolo e a conversa;
Pensei: O amor eterno. Pero non acertei.

Xa non quero as estrelas; apagádeas todiñas;
empaquetade a lúa e despezade o sol.
Baleirade os océanos, deforestade os bosques,
porque a partir de agora non vai vir nada bo.

W. H. Auden
(de Another Time; Faber e Random House, 1940)
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Tradución de Kavafinho

FUNERAL BLUES

STOP all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

W. H. Auden
(In Another Time; Faber & Random House, 1940)