A series of daily posts with a Spanish poem in its original language and translated into English.
One Spanish poem a day - Un poema al día en Español
Antonio Machado
Even though I made a wove to myself to not dirty these beautiful poems with my words, this particular poem has a deep personal meaning for me, and is rooted very close to certain moments of my life which are vividly embedded in my mind.
Antonio Machado wrote this poem in 1912 short before the death of his wive, and included it in his book "Campos de Castilla". She died of tuberculosis.
Machado, when walking the fields in the surroundings of Soria, a small and cold city north of Spain, noticed an old dried elm tree, beaten by time and bent sideways. The tree had a green sprout, and Machado interpreted it as a sign and ray of hope for his wive's life, whom traditional medicine had already "condemned". This is the starting point for this poem which I love so much.
A un olmo viejo
Al olmo viejo, hendido por el rayo
y en su mitad podrido,
con las lluvias de abril y el sol de mayo
algunas hojas verdes le han salido.
¡El olmo centenario en la colina
que lame el Duero! Un musgo amarillento
le mancha la corteza blanquecina
al tronco carcomido y polvoriento.
No será, cual los álamos cantores
que guardan el camino y la ribera,
habitado de pardos ruiseñores.
Ejército de hormigas en hilera
va trepando por él, y en sus entrañas
urden sus telas grises las arañas.
Antes que te derribe, olmo del Duero,
con su hacha el leñador, y el carpintero
te convierta en melena de campana,
lanza de carro o yugo de carreta;
antes que rojo en el hogar, mañana,
ardas en alguna mísera caseta,
al borde de un camino;
antes que te descuaje un torbellino
y tronche el soplo de las sierras blancas;
antes que el río hasta la mar te empuje
por valles y barrancas,
olmo, quiero anotar en mi cartera
la gracia de tu rama verdecida.
Mi corazón espera
también, hacia la luz y hacia la vida,
otro milagro de la primavera.
To a Dry Elm
The old elm, split by lightning
and half rotted
with April rain and May sun,
has sprouted a few green leaves.
The hundred-year-old elm on a hill
lapped by the Duero! A yellowish moss
stains the bleached bark
of the crumbling, worm-eaten trunk.
Unlike the singing poplars
that guard roads and riverbanks,
it won't be a home to nightingales.
An army of ants in a single line
climbs up its side and spiders weave
their gray webs in its hollowed core.
Elm by the Duero, before you are felled
by the woodman's ax and the carpenter
transforms you into a bell tower,
a wagon axle or cart's yoke;
before you are a red flame on
tomorrow's hearth in some poor cottage
along the side of the road;
before a whirlwind uproots you,
and the wind from the white sierras snaps you;
before the river pushes you to the sea
through valleys and ravines,
elm, I want to note
the grace of your greening branch.
My heart also waits in hope,
turned toward light and life,
for another miracle of spring.
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