Hay cementerios solos,
tumbas llenas de huesos sin sonido,
el corazon pasando un tunel
oscuro, oscuro, oscuro,
como un naufragio hacia adentro nos morimos.
como ahogarnos en el corazon,
como irnos cayendo desde la piel al alma.

Hay cadaveres,
hay pies de pegajosa losa fria,
hay la muerte en los huesos,
como un donido puro,
como un ladrido sin perro,
saliendo de ciertas campanas, de ciertas tumbas,
creciendo en la humedad com el llanto o la lluvia.


Yo veo, solo, a veces,
ataudes a vela
zarpar con difuntos palidos, con mujeres de trenzas muertas,
con panaderos blancos como angeles,
con ninas pensativas casadas con notarios,
ataudes subiendo el rio vertical de los muertos,
el rio morado,
hacia arriba, con las velas hinchadas por el sonido
de la muerte,
hinchadas por el sonido silencioso de la muerte.


A lo sonoro llega la muerte
como un zapato sin pie, como un traje sin hombre,
llega a golppear con un anillo sin piedras y sin dedo,
llega a gritar sin boca, sin lengua,
sin garganta,
Sin embargo sus pasos suenan
y su vestido suena, callado como un arbol.


Yo no se, yo conozco poco, yo apenas veo,
pero creo que su canto tiene color de violetas humedas,
de violetas acostumbradas a la tierra,
porque la cara de la muerte es verde,
con la aguda humedad de una hoja de violeta
y su grave color de invierno exasperado.


Pero la muerte va tambien por el mundo vestida de escoba,
lame el suelo buscando difuntos,
la muerte esta en la escoba,
es la lengua de la muerte buscando muertos,
es la aguja de la muerte buscando hilo.


La muerte esta en los catres:
en los colchones lentos, en las frazadas negras
vive tendida, y de repente sopla:
sopla un sonido oscuro que hincha sabanas,
y hay camas navegando a un puerto
en donde esta esperando, vestida de almirante.

Nothing but Death

There are cemeteries that are lonely, 
graves full of bones that do not make a sound, 
the heart moving through a tunnel, in it darkness, darkness, darkness, 
like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves, 
as though we were drowning inside our hearts, 
as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul.

And there are corpses, 
feet made of cold and sticky clay, 
death is inside the bones, 
like a barking where there are no dogs, 
coming out from bells somewhere, from graves somewhere, 
growing in the damp air like tears or rain.

Sometimes I see alone 
coffins under sail, 
embarking with the pale dead, with women that have dead hair, 
with bakers who are as white as angels, 
and pensive young girls married to notary publics, 
caskets sailing up the vertical river of the dead, 
the river of dark purple, moving upstream with sails filled out by the sound of death, 
filled by the sound of death which is silence.

Death arrives among all that sound 
like a shoe with no foot in it, like a suit with no man in it, 
comes and knocks, using a ring with no stone in it, with no finger in it, 
comes and shouts with no mouth, with no tongue, with no throat. 
Nevertheless its steps can be heard 
and its clothing makes a hushed sound, like a tree.

I'm not sure, I understand only a little, I can hardly see, 
but it seems to me that its singing has the color of damp violets, 
of violets that are at home in the earth, 
because the face of death is green, 
and the look death gives is green, 
with the penetrating dampness of a violet leaf 
and the somber color of embittered winter.

But death also goes through the world dressed as a broom, 
lapping the floor, looking for dead bodies, 
death is inside the broom, 
the broom is the tongue of death looking for corpses, 
it is the needle of death looking for thread.

Death is inside the folding cots: 
it spends its life sleeping on the slow mattresses, 
in the black blankets, and suddenly breathes out: 
it blows out a mournful sound that swells the sheets, 
and the beds go sailing toward a port 
where death is waiting, dressed like an admiral.
 
(Translated by Robert Bly)

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