(
Mi mano está sucia
(A la manera de Carlos Drummond de Andrade)
Mi mano está sucia
Debo cortármela.
Lavarla no tiene sentido.
El agua es pútrida.
El jabón es malo.
No hace espuma.
La mano está sucia.
Ha estado sucia durante años
Antes solía esconderla
en el bolsillo de mis pantalones.
Nadie sospechaba eso.
Las gentes venían a mí,
queriendo estrechar mi mano.
Yo rehusaba y la mano escondida,
como una babosa oscura,
dejaba su huella en mi muslo.
Entonces me di cuenta
que era lo mismo
si la usaba o no.
La repugnancia era la misma.
¡Ah! Cuántas noches
en las profundidades de la casa
lavé esa mano,
la restregué, la pulí,
soñé que se iba a volver
diamante o cristal
o incluso, por fin,
una ordinaria mano blanca,
la mano limpia de un hombre
que uno puede sacudir,
o besar, o asir
en uno de esos momentos
en que dos seres se confiesan
sin decir palabra...
Sólo para sentir
la incurable mano,
letárgica y cangrejuna,
abrir sus dedos sucios.
Y la suciedad era vil.
No era hollín o lodo
ni la mugre endurecida
de una vieja costra
o el sudor
de una camisa de trabajador.
Era la triste suciedad
hecha de enfermedad
y angustia humanas.
No era negra;
lo negro es puro.
Era opaca,
una suciedad grisácea y opaca.
Es imposible
vivir con esta
tosca mano que yace
sobre la mesa.
¡Pronto! ¡Córtala!
Pícala
y arrójala
al océano.
Con tiempo, con esperanza
y sus intrincadas maniobras
otra mano va a surgir,
pura, transparente como el vidrio,
y se soldará a mi brazo.
(Traducción de Guillermo Teodoro
Schuster y
Juan Carlos Prieto Cané)
Juan Carlos Prieto Cané)
My hand is dirty.
(After Carlos Drummond de
Andrade)
My hand is
dirty.
I must cut it
off.
To wash it is
pointless,
The water is
putrid.
The soap is
bad.
It won't lather.
The hand is
dirty.
It's been dirty for years.
I used to keep it
out of sight,
in my pants
pocket.
No one
suspected a thing.
People came up
to me,
wanting to
shake hands.
I would refuse
and the hidden
hand,
like a dark
slug,
would leave its
imprint
on my thigh.
And then I
realized
it was the same
if I used it or
not.
Disgust was the
same.
Ah! How many
nights
in the depths
of the house
I washed that
hand,
scrubbed it,
polished it,
dreamed it
would turn
to diamond or
crystal
or even, at
last,
into a plain
white hand,
the clean hand
of a man,
that you could shake,
or kiss, or
hold
in one of those
moments
when two people
confess
without saying
a word...
Only to have
the incurable
hand,
lethargic and crablike,
open its dirty fingers.
And the dirt
was vile.
It was not mud
or soot
or the caked
filth
of an old scab
or the sweat
of a laborer's
shirt.
It was a sad
dirt
made of
sickness
and human
anguish.
It was not
black;
black is pure.
It was dull,
a dull grayish
dirt.
It is impossible
to live with
this gross hand that lies
on the table.
Quick! Cut it
off!
Chop it to
pieces
and throw it
into the ocean.
With time, with
hope
and its
intricate workings
another hand
will come,
pure,
transparent as glass,
and fasten
itself to my arm.
Tomado del libro "Poesia minimalista norteamericana" ediciones Los libros del Orfeo
