No vestía una chaqueta rojaporque rojos son la sangre y el vino,y había sangre y vino en sus manoscuando lo encontraron junto al cadáverde la pobre muerta a quien amabay a quien mató en el lecho.
Caminaba entre los Jueces,vestía un raído traje grisy una gorra de crickety su andar era leve y alegre;sin embargo, nunca vi a nadie mirarcon tanta tristeza el día.
Jamás vi a un hombre mirarcon ojos tan tristesel pequeño toldo azulque los presos llamamos cielo,y a cada nube que pasacomo velas de plata.
Yo caminaba junto a las otras almas,en otra dimensión,y me preguntaba si el hombrehabía cometido un grancrimen o una insignificancia,cuando una voz me susurró al oído«ese hombre va a mecerse».
¡Cristo! Los muros de la prisiónde pronto parecieron tambalearsey el cielo sobre mi cabeza se convirtióen un casco de acero candente;Y aunque era yo un alma en pena,no podía sentirla.
Comprendí entonces cuál era el pensamientoque me acosaba; y por quéél miraba el día destempladocon ojos melancólicos.El hombre había matado aquello que amabay debía morir.
Sin embargo, cada hombre mata lo que ama.Escuchen esto;unos lo hacen con mirada amargaotros con una palabra aduladora;el cobarde lo hace con un beso,y ¡el valiente con la espada!
Algunos matan al amor cuando son jóvenesy otros cuando viejos;estrangulan algunos con manos de Lujuria,otros con manos de Oro:el más compasivo usa un puñal porquelos muertos se enfrían rápidamente.
Algunos aman poco, otros mucho,Agunos compran y otros venden.Algunos cometen el hecho llorando muchas lágrimasy otros sin un suspiro.Porque cada hombre mata lo que amapero no todo hombre muere.
No muere una muerte vergonzosaen un día de negro y desgraciado,ni tampoco lleva una soga al cuelloni un trapo sobre el rostro;ni dejan caer primero los pieshacia el vacío.
Tampoco se sienta con hombres silenciososque lo vigilan noche y día;que lo vigilan cuando trata de llorary cuando intenta rezar;que lo vigilan; no sea que él mismo robede la prisión la presa.
No se despierta al alba para verformas temibles ocupar su celda:el aterido Capellán de túnica blanca,el Alguacil triste y adusto,el Director en brillante traje negroy el amarillo rostro de la Muerte.
No se levanta en lastimoso apuropara vestir el traje de convicto,mientras un grosero Doctor se regodeacon cada nuevo tic y nueva pose ;toqueteando un reloj cuyo sonidose parece a horribles golpes de martillo.
No conoce la terrible sedque raspa la garganta, antes de que el verdugose deslice con sus guantes de jardineropor la puerta acolchada,y lo ate a uno con tres correaspara terminar con la sed de la garganta.
No inclina la cabeza para oírla lectura del oficio mortuorio,ni aún cuando el terror de su almale dice que no está muerto;ni cuando se cruza con su propio ataúdal acercarse a la espantosa barraca.
Ni mira fijamente al airea través del techo de vidrio;ni reza con labios de arcillapara que termine su agonía;ni siente en su mejilla estremecidael beso de Caifás.
The ballad of Reading Gaol
In MemoriamC.T.W.Sometime Trooper of the Royal Horse Guards.Obiit H.M. Prison, Reading, Berkshire,July 7th, 1896
I.
He did not wear his scarlet coat,For blood and wine are red,And blood and wine were on his handsWhen they found him with the dead,The poor dead woman whom he loved,And murdered in her bed.
He walked amongst the Trial MenIn a suit of shabby grey;A cricket cap was on his head,And his step seemed light and gay;But I never saw a man who lookedSo wistfully at the day.
I never saw a man who lookedWith such a wistful eyeUpon that little tent of blueWhich prisoners call the sky,And at every drifting cloud that wentWith sails of silver by.
I walked, with other souls in pain,Within another ring,And was wondering if the man had doneA great or little thing,When a voice behind me whispered low,"That fellows got to swing."
Dear Christ! the very prison wallsSuddenly seemed to reel,And the sky above my head becameLike a casque of scorching steel;And, though I was a soul in pain,My pain I could not feel.
I only knew what hunted thoughtQuickened his step, and whyHe looked upon the garish dayWith such a wistful eye;The man had killed the thing he lovedAnd so he had to die.
Yet each man kills the thing he lovesBy each let this be heard,Some do it with a bitter look,Some with a flattering word,The coward does it with a kiss,The brave man with a sword!
Some kill their love when they are young,And some when they are old;Some strangle with the hands of Lust,Some with the hands of Gold:The kindest use a knife, becauseThe dead so soon grow cold.
Some love too little, some too long,Some sell, and others buy;Some do the deed with many tears,And some without a sigh:For each man kills the thing he loves,Yet each man does not die.
He does not die a death of shameOn a day of dark disgrace,Nor have a noose about his neck,Nor a cloth upon his face,Nor drop feet foremost through the floorInto an empty place
He does not sit with silent menWho watch him night and day;Who watch him when he tries to weep,And when he tries to pray;Who watch him lest himself should robThe prison of its prey.
He does not wake at dawn to seeDread figures throng his room,The shivering Chaplain robed in white,The Sheriff stern with gloom,And the Governor all in shiny black,With the yellow face of Doom.
He does not rise in piteous hasteTo put on convict-clothes,While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats, and notesEach new and nerve-twitched pose,Fingering a watch whose little ticksAre like horrible hammer-blows.
He does not know that sickening thirstThat sands one's throat, beforeThe hangman with his gardener's glovesSlips through the padded door,And binds one with three leathern thongs,That the throat may thirst no more.
He does not bend his head to hearThe Burial Office read,Nor, while the terror of his soulTells him he is not dead,Cross his own coffin, as he movesInto the hideous shed.
He does not stare upon the airThrough a little roof of glass;He does not pray with lips of clayFor his agony to pass;Nor feel upon his shuddering cheekThe kiss of Caiaphas.
Caminaba entre los Jueces,vestía un raído traje grisy una gorra de crickety su andar era leve y alegre;sin embargo, nunca vi a nadie mirarcon tanta tristeza el día.
Jamás vi a un hombre mirarcon ojos tan tristesel pequeño toldo azulque los presos llamamos cielo,y a cada nube que pasacomo velas de plata.
Yo caminaba junto a las otras almas,en otra dimensión,y me preguntaba si el hombrehabía cometido un grancrimen o una insignificancia,cuando una voz me susurró al oído«ese hombre va a mecerse».
¡Cristo! Los muros de la prisiónde pronto parecieron tambalearsey el cielo sobre mi cabeza se convirtióen un casco de acero candente;Y aunque era yo un alma en pena,no podía sentirla.
Comprendí entonces cuál era el pensamientoque me acosaba; y por quéél miraba el día destempladocon ojos melancólicos.El hombre había matado aquello que amabay debía morir.
Sin embargo, cada hombre mata lo que ama.Escuchen esto;unos lo hacen con mirada amargaotros con una palabra aduladora;el cobarde lo hace con un beso,y ¡el valiente con la espada!
Algunos matan al amor cuando son jóvenesy otros cuando viejos;estrangulan algunos con manos de Lujuria,otros con manos de Oro:el más compasivo usa un puñal porquelos muertos se enfrían rápidamente.
Algunos aman poco, otros mucho,Agunos compran y otros venden.Algunos cometen el hecho llorando muchas lágrimasy otros sin un suspiro.Porque cada hombre mata lo que amapero no todo hombre muere.
No muere una muerte vergonzosaen un día de negro y desgraciado,ni tampoco lleva una soga al cuelloni un trapo sobre el rostro;ni dejan caer primero los pieshacia el vacío.
Tampoco se sienta con hombres silenciososque lo vigilan noche y día;que lo vigilan cuando trata de llorary cuando intenta rezar;que lo vigilan; no sea que él mismo robede la prisión la presa.
No se despierta al alba para verformas temibles ocupar su celda:el aterido Capellán de túnica blanca,el Alguacil triste y adusto,el Director en brillante traje negroy el amarillo rostro de la Muerte.
No se levanta en lastimoso apuropara vestir el traje de convicto,mientras un grosero Doctor se regodeacon cada nuevo tic y nueva pose ;toqueteando un reloj cuyo sonidose parece a horribles golpes de martillo.
No conoce la terrible sedque raspa la garganta, antes de que el verdugose deslice con sus guantes de jardineropor la puerta acolchada,y lo ate a uno con tres correaspara terminar con la sed de la garganta.
No inclina la cabeza para oírla lectura del oficio mortuorio,ni aún cuando el terror de su almale dice que no está muerto;ni cuando se cruza con su propio ataúdal acercarse a la espantosa barraca.
Ni mira fijamente al airea través del techo de vidrio;ni reza con labios de arcillapara que termine su agonía;ni siente en su mejilla estremecidael beso de Caifás.
The ballad of Reading Gaol
In MemoriamC.T.W.Sometime Trooper of the Royal Horse Guards.Obiit H.M. Prison, Reading, Berkshire,July 7th, 1896
I.
He did not wear his scarlet coat,For blood and wine are red,And blood and wine were on his handsWhen they found him with the dead,The poor dead woman whom he loved,And murdered in her bed.
He walked amongst the Trial MenIn a suit of shabby grey;A cricket cap was on his head,And his step seemed light and gay;But I never saw a man who lookedSo wistfully at the day.
I never saw a man who lookedWith such a wistful eyeUpon that little tent of blueWhich prisoners call the sky,And at every drifting cloud that wentWith sails of silver by.
I walked, with other souls in pain,Within another ring,And was wondering if the man had doneA great or little thing,When a voice behind me whispered low,"That fellows got to swing."
Dear Christ! the very prison wallsSuddenly seemed to reel,And the sky above my head becameLike a casque of scorching steel;And, though I was a soul in pain,My pain I could not feel.
I only knew what hunted thoughtQuickened his step, and whyHe looked upon the garish dayWith such a wistful eye;The man had killed the thing he lovedAnd so he had to die.
Yet each man kills the thing he lovesBy each let this be heard,Some do it with a bitter look,Some with a flattering word,The coward does it with a kiss,The brave man with a sword!
Some kill their love when they are young,And some when they are old;Some strangle with the hands of Lust,Some with the hands of Gold:The kindest use a knife, becauseThe dead so soon grow cold.
Some love too little, some too long,Some sell, and others buy;Some do the deed with many tears,And some without a sigh:For each man kills the thing he loves,Yet each man does not die.
He does not die a death of shameOn a day of dark disgrace,Nor have a noose about his neck,Nor a cloth upon his face,Nor drop feet foremost through the floorInto an empty place
He does not sit with silent menWho watch him night and day;Who watch him when he tries to weep,And when he tries to pray;Who watch him lest himself should robThe prison of its prey.
He does not wake at dawn to seeDread figures throng his room,The shivering Chaplain robed in white,The Sheriff stern with gloom,And the Governor all in shiny black,With the yellow face of Doom.
He does not rise in piteous hasteTo put on convict-clothes,While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats, and notesEach new and nerve-twitched pose,Fingering a watch whose little ticksAre like horrible hammer-blows.
He does not know that sickening thirstThat sands one's throat, beforeThe hangman with his gardener's glovesSlips through the padded door,And binds one with three leathern thongs,That the throat may thirst no more.
He does not bend his head to hearThe Burial Office read,Nor, while the terror of his soulTells him he is not dead,Cross his own coffin, as he movesInto the hideous shed.
He does not stare upon the airThrough a little roof of glass;He does not pray with lips of clayFor his agony to pass;Nor feel upon his shuddering cheekThe kiss of Caiaphas.
No hay comentarios:
Publicar un comentario