Residence on Earth (New Directions Paperbook) (26 page)

At night the peasant sleeps, awakes, and sinks

his hand into the darkness asking the dawn:

daybreak, morning sun, light of the coming day,

tell me if the purest hands of men still

defend the castle of honor, tell me, dawn,

if the steel on your brow breaks its might,

if man is in his place, if thunder is in its place,

tell me, says the peasant, if earth does not listen

to how the blood falls from the reddened

heroes in the vastness of earthly night,

tell me if the sky is still above the tree,

tell me if gunpowder still sounds in Stalingrad.

And the sailor in the midst of the terrible sea looks,

seeking amid the watery constellations

one, the red star of the flaming city,

and he finds in his heart that burning star,

his hands seek to touch that star of pride,

his eyes are building that star of tears.

City, red star, say sea and man,

city, close your thunderbolts, close your hard doors,

close, city, your glorious bloodied laurel

and let night tremble with the dark luster

of your eyes behind a planet of swords.

And the Spaniard remembers Madrid and says: sister,

resist, capital of glory, resist:

from the soil rises all the spilt blood

of Spain, and throughout Spain it is rising again,

and the Spaniard asks, next to the

firing-squad wall, if Stalingrad lives:

and there is in prison a chain of black eyes

that riddle the walls with your name,

and Spain shakes herself with your blood and your dead,

because you, Stalingrad, held out to her your heart

when Spain was giving birth to heroes like yours.

She knows loneliness, Spain,

as today, Stalingrad, you know your loneliness.

Spain tore at the earth with her nails

when Paris was prettier than ever,

Spain drained her immense tree of blood

when London was grooming, as Pedro Garfías

tells us, her lawn and her swan lakes.

Today you know that, sturdy virgin,

today you know, Russia, loneliness and cold.

When thousands of howitzers shatter your heart,

when scorpions with crime and venom,

Stalingrad, rush to pierce your heart,

New York dances, London meditates, and I say “merde, ”

because my heart can stand no more and our

hearts

can stand no more, cannot live

in a world that lets its heroes die alone.

You leave them alone? They will come for you!

You leave them alone?

Do you want life

to flee to the tomb, and the smiles of men

to be erased by cesspools and Calvary?

Why do you not answer?

Do you want more dead on the Eastern Front

until they totally fill your sky?

But then you will have nothing left but hell.

The world is getting bored with little deeds,

bored that in Madagascar the generals

heroically kill fifty-five monkeys.

The world is bored with autumnal meetings

still presided over by an umbrella.

City, Stalingrad, we cannot

reach your walls, we are far away.

We are the Mexicans, we are the Araucanians,

we are the Patagonians, we are the Guaranís,

we are the Uruguayans, we are the Chileans,

we are millions of men.

We now luckily have relatives in the family,

but we still do not come to defend you, mother.

City, city of fire, resist until one day

we come, shipwrecked Indians, to touch your walls

like a kiss from sons who were eager to arrive.

Stalingrad, there is not yet a Second Front,

but you will not fall, even though iron and fire

pierce you day and night.

Even though you die, you do not die!

Because men can no longer die

and must go on struggling from the place where they fall

until victory lies only in your hands

although they are weary and pierced and dead,

because other red hands, when your hands fall,

will sow throughout the world the bones of your heroes

so that your seed may fill all the earth.

Yo escribí sobre el tiempo y sobre el agua,

describí el luto y su metal morado,

yo escribí sobre el cielo y la manzana,

ahora escribo sobre Stalingrado.

Ya la novia guardó con su pañuelo

el rayo de mi amor enamorado,

ahora mi corazón está en el suelo,

en el humo y la luz de Stalingrado.

Yo toqué con mis manos la camisa

del crepúsculo azul y derrotado:

ahora toco el alba de la vida

naciendo con el sol de Stalingrado.

Yo sé que el viejo joven transitorio

de pluma, como un cisne encuadernado,

desencuaderna su dolor notorio

por mi grito de amor a Stalingrado.

Yo pongo el alma mía donde quiero.

Y no me nutro de papel cansado,

adobado de tinta y de tintero.

Nací para cantar a Stalingrado.

Mi voz estuvo con tus grandes muertos

contra tus propios muros machacados,

mi voz sonó como campana y viento

mirándote morir, Stalingrado.

Ahora americanos combatientes

blancos y oscuros como los granados

matan en el desierto a la serpiente.

Ya no estás sola, Stalingrado.

Francia vuelve a las viejas barricadas

con pabellón de furia enarbolado

sobre las lágrimas recién secadas.

Ya no estás sola, Stalingrado.

Y los grandes leones de Inglaterra

volando sobre el mar huracanado

clavan las garras en la parda tierra.

Ya no estás sola, Stalingrado.

Hoy bajo tus montañas de escarmiento

no sólo están los tuyos enterrados:

temblando está la carne de los muertos

que tocaron tu frente, Stalingrado.

Deshechas van las invasoras manos,

triturados los ojos del soldado,

están llenos de sangre los zapatos

que pisaron tu puerta, Stalingrado.

Tu acero azul de orgullo construido,

tu pelo de planetas coronados,

tu baluarte de panes divididos,

tu frontera sombría, Stalingrado.

Tu Patria de martillos y laureles,

la sangre sobre tu esplendor nevado,

la mirada de Stalin a la nieve

tejida con tu sangre, Stalingrado.

Las condecoraciones que tus muertos

han puesto sobre el pecho traspasado

de la tierra, y el estremecimiento

de la muerte y la vida, Stalingrado.

La sal profunda que de nuevo traes

al corazón del hombre acongojado

con la rama de rojos capitanes

salidos de tu sangre, Stalingrado.

La esperanza que rompe en los jardines

como la flor del árbol esperado,

la página grabada de fusiles,

las letras de la luz, Stalingrado.

La torre que concibes en la altura,

los altares de piedra ensangrentados,

los defensores de tu edad madura,

los hijos de tu piel, Stalingrado.

Las águilas ardientes de tus piedras,

los metales por tu alma amamantados,

los adioses de lágrimas inmensas

y las olas de amor, Stalingrado.

Los huesos de asesinos malheridos,

los invasores párpados cerrados,

y los conquistadores fugitivos

detrás de tu centella, Stalingrado.

Los que humillaron la curva del Arco

y las aguas del Sena han taladrado

con el consentimiento del esclavo,

se detuvieron en Stalingrado.

Los que sobre Praga la Bella en lágrimas,

sobre lo enmudecido y traicionado,

pasaron pisoteando sus heridas,

murieron en Stalingrado.

Los que en la gruta griega han escupido,

la estalactita de cristal truncado

y su clásico azul enrarecido,

ahora dónde están, Stalingrado?

Los que España quemaron y rompieron

dejando el corazón encadenado

de esa madre de encinos y guerreros,

se pudren a tus pies, Stalingrado.

Los que en Holanda, tulipanes y agua

salpicaron de lodo ensangrentado

y esparcieron el látigo y la espada

ahora duermen en Stalingrado.

Los que en la noche blanca de Noruega

con un aullido de chacal soltado

quemaron esa helada primavera

enmudecieron en Stalingrado.

Honor a ti por lo que el aire trae,

lo que se ha de cantar y lo cantado,

honor para tus madres y tus hijos

y tus nietos, Stalingrado.

Honor al combatiente de la bruma,

honor al Comisario y al soldado,

honor al cielo detrás de tu luna,

honor al sol de Stalingrado.

Guárdame un trozo de violenta espuma,

guárdame un rifle, guárdame un arado,

y que los pongan en mi sepultura

con una espiga roja de tu estado,

para que sepan, si hay alguna duda,

que he muerto amándote y que me has amado,

y si no he combatido en tu cintura

dejo en tu honor esta granada oscura,

este canto de amor a Stalingrado.

I wrote about the weather and about the water,

I described mourning and its purple character,

I wrote about the sky and the apple,

now I write about Stalingrad.

The bride already tucked away with her handkerchief

the thunderbolt of my loving love,

now my heart is on the ground,

in the smoke and light of Stalingrad.

I touched with my hands the shirt

of the blue and defeated dusk:

now I touch the dawn of life

being born with the sun of Stalingrad.

I know that the old transitory scribbling

youth, like a leather-bound swan,

unbinds his proverbial grief

because of my love cry to Stalingrad.

I put my heart where I choose.

I do not feed upon weary paper

dressed in ink and inkwell.

I was born to sing to Stalingrad.

My voice was with your great dead

smashed to bits against your own walls,

my voice sounded like bell and wind

watching you die, Stalingrad.

Now American fighters

white and dark as pomegranates

kill the serpent in the desert.

You are alone no more, Stalingrad.

France returns to the old barricades

with a banner of fury raised

above freshly dried tears.

You are alone no more, Stalingrad.

And the great lions of England

flying over the stormy sea

dig their claws into the brown earth.

You are alone no more, Stalingrad.

Today under your mountains of punishment

your dead are not buried alone:

trembling is the flesh of the dead

who touched your brow, Stalingrad.

Smashed are the invading hands,

shattered the soldier’s eyes,

filled with blood are the shoes

that trampled your door, Stalingrad.

Your blue steel built of pride,

your hair of crowned planets,

your bulwark of shared loaves,

your dark frontier, Stalingrad.

Your fatherland of hammers and laurels,

the blood upon your snowy splendor,

the gaze of Stalin at the snow

stained with your blood, Stalingrad.

The decorations that your dead

have placed upon the pierced breast

of the earth, and the shudder

of death and life, Stalingrad.

The deep savor that you bring again

to the heart of stricken man

with the branch of red captains

come from your blood, Stalingrad.

The hope that breaks out in gardens

like the flower of the hoped-for tree,

the page engraved with guns,

the letters of light, Stalingrad.

The tower that you conceive on the height,

the bloody altars of stone,

the defenders of your ripe age,

the sons of your flesh, Stalingrad.

The burning eagles of your stones,

the metals suckled by your soul,

the farewells of enormous tears

and the waves of love, Stalingrad.

The bones of murderers deeply wounded,

the shut eyelids of invaders,

and the conquerors fleeing

behind your lightningflash, Stalingrad.

Those who humbled the curve of the Arch

and pierced the waters of the Seine

with the slave’s consent

were stopped at Stalingrad.

Those who over beautiful Prague in tears,

over the mute and betrayed,

passed trampling their wounds

died in Stalingrad.

Those who have spat upon the Greek grotto,

truncated the crystal stalactite

and rarefied its classic blue,

now where are they, Stalingrad?

Those who burned and shattered Spain,

leaving in chains the heart

of that mother of oak trees and warriors,

rot at your feet, Stalingrad.

Those who in Holland spattered tulips

and water with bloody mud

and spread the scourge and the sword

now sleep in Stalingrad.

Those who in the white night of Norway

with the howl of an unleashed jackal

burned that frozen spring

were silent in Stalingrad.

Honor to you for what the air brings,

what is to be sung and what has been sung,

honor for your mothers and your sons

and your grandsons, Stalingrad.

Honor to the fighter of the mist,

honor to the commissar and to the soldier,

honor to the sky behind your moon,

honor to the sun of Stalingrad.

Keep for me a fleck of violent spume,

keep for me a rifle, keep for me a plough,

and have them placed upon my tomb

with a red flower from your land,

so that they may know, if there is any doubt,

that I died loving you and that you loved me,

and if I have not fought at your side,

I leave behind in your honor this dark pomegranate,

this song of love to Stalingrad.