𓂃 my attempt at translating again, or a rework of /Lorca.

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An archive for (mostly) Spanish literary media translated over to English by hand! By the creator of /Lorca. I reached the character limit on there a while ago, but haven't stopped translating since, and I figured archiving what I've been doing would be nice. I am not a professional translator, this is merely for fun and due to my interest in Literature and Linguistics.

If you feel as if though a poem hasn't been appropriately translated or find any flaw within the archive, please contact me. If you have any suggestions or comments (or just simply wish to talk to me about Literature, Linguistics or related fields) feel free to contact me as well, either my Discord, or, if you prefer e-mail, I can be found here.

In the interest of accesibility, this site is viewable on all devices and viewable in either dark or light mode. :) Please let me know if there is anything I can improve.

This website is a WIP! Thank you for visiting, and please be patient. Things to work on currently: • Finalising archiving past translations

Original archive/Sister website | Letter archive

General warning I translate a lot of more Surrealist poets, which is particularly hard and also oftentimes requires the reader to actually know previous context. I cannot physically provide you with a list of metaphors, style characteristics and meanings for every author's repertoir, but you can message me about it. I may not know everything about a particular poem/author, but I most likely have more professional sources than someone inexperienced. :)

Translations to English will be found beneath the original poem in Spanish. Anything I consider worth clarifying will be marked with a footnote in any given verse¹ and noted at the end of the translation. ¹ Like this!
Texts that are not Spanish will have a little flag next to their title indicating their original origin/language! Grey bolded text are links you can click to take you to a poem!

Translation count: 25 Frequently Asked Questions

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Federico García Lorca 1910 (Intermedio) | Canción tonta | Soledad | Preludio II Vicente Aleixandre Forma Miguel Hernández Llamo al toro de España | Para la libertad San Juan De La Cruz Aunque es de Noche Mario Benedetti Conjugaciones: 1 — Álbum | Conjugaciones: 2 — Claves | Conjugaciones: 3 — Variantes | Conjugaciones: 4 — Complemento | Conjugaciones: 3 — Variantes | Conjugaciones: 5 — Después | Conjugaciones: 6 — Ausencia | Conjugaciones: 7 — Rigores | Conjugaciones: 8 — Previsión | Conjugaciones: 9 — Plurales Regional poetry¹ ² Nel pozu María Luisa | No em preguntis, amor, per què t'estimo | Noizbait arte bihurtu zaigu | Noizbait lorarik politena aukin zenun | Poeta-Narcís Theatre ¡Ay mísero de mí! | Escena XIX Prose Tormenta

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1910 (Intermedio)

Federico García Lorca.

Aquellos ojos míos de mil novecientos diez
no vieron enterrar a los muertos,
ni la feria de ceniza del que llora por la madrugada,
ni el corazón que tiembla arrinconado como un caballito de mar.

Aquellos ojos míos de mil novecientos diez
vieron la blanca pared donde orinaban las niñas,
el hocico del toro, la seta venenosa
y una luna incomprensible que iluminaba por los rincones
los pedazos de limón seco bajo el negro duro de las botellas.

Aquellos ojos míos en el cuello de la jaca,
en el seno traspasado de Santa Rosa dormida,
en los tejados del amor, con gemidos y frescas manos,
en un jardín donde los gatos se comían a las ranas.

Desván donde el polvo viejo congrega estatuas y musgos,
cajas que guardan silencio de cangrejos devorados
en el sitio donde el sueño tropezaba con su realidad.
Allí mis pequeños ojos.

No preguntarme nada. He visto que las cosas
cuando buscan su curso encuentran su vacío.
Hay un dolor de huecos por el aire sin gente
y en mis ojos criaturas vestidas ¡sin desnudo!

1910 (Intermediate)

Those eyes of mine from ninety-ten
did not see the dead being buried,
nor the fair of ash from he who cries in the morning,
neither the heart that trembles, cornered like a seahorse.

Those eyes of mine from ninety-ten
saw the white wall wherein the girls urinated,
the bull's snout, the poisonous mushroom
and an incomprehensible moon that illuminated around the corners
the pieces of dry lemon from underneath the hard black of the bottles.

Those eyes of mine on the pony's neck,
on the tresspassed breasts of Saint Rose, asleep
on the roofs of love, with moans and fresh hands,
in a garden where the cats would eat the frogs.

Attic wherein the old dust congregates statues and moss,
boxes that hold the silence of devoured crabs
In the place wherein the dream tripped over its reality.
There, my small eyes.

Do not ask me anything. I have found that when things
search for their course, they find their emptiness.
There is a hollow pain in the uninhabited air¹
and in my eyes, dressed creatures, with no nudity!

---

¹ Literally "air without people".

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Canción tonta

Federico García Lorca.

Mamá,
yo quiero ser de plata.
Hijo,
tendrás mucho frío.
Mamá.
Yo quiero ser de agua.
Hijo,
tendrás mucho frío.
Mamá.
Bórdarme en tu almohada.
¡Eso sí!
¡Ahora mismo!

Dumb Song

Mom.
I want to be made of silver.
Son,
you'll be very cold.
Mom.
I want to be made of water.
Son,
you'll be very cold.
Mom.
Embroider me in your pillow.
Yes indeed!
Right this moment!

Llamo al toro de España

Miguel Hernández.

Alza, toro de España: levántate, despierta.
Despiértate del todo, toro de negra espuma,
que respiras la luz y rezumas la sombra,
y concentras los mares bajo tu piel cerrada.

Despiértate.

Despiértate del todo, que te veo dormido,
un pedazo del pecho y otro de la cabeza:
que aún no te has despertado como despierta un toro
cuando se le acomete con traiciones lobunas.

Levántate.

Resopla tu poder, despliega tu esqueleto,
enarbola tu frente con las rotundas hachas,
con las dos herramientas de asustar a los astros,
de amenazar al cielo con astas de tragedia.

Esgrímete.

Toro en la primavera más toro que otras veces,
en España más toro, toro, que en otras partes.
Más cálido que nunca, más volcánico, toro,
que irradias, que iluminas al fuego, yérguete.

Desencadénate.

Desencadena el raudo corazón que te orienta
por las plazas de España, sobre su astral arena.
A desollarte vivo vienen lobos y águilas
que han envidiado siempre tu hermosura de pueblo.

Yérguete.

No te van a castrar: no dejarás que llegue
hasta tus atributos de varón abundante,
esa mano felina que pretende arrancártelos
de cuajo, impunemente: pataléalos, toro.

Víbrate.

No te van a absorber la sangre de riqueza,
no te arrebatarán los ojos minerales.
La piel donde recoge resplandor el lucero
no arrancarán del toro de torrencial mercurio.

Revuélvete.

Es como si quisieran arrancar la piel al sol,
al torrente la espuma con uña y picotazo.
No te van a castrar, poder tan masculino
que fecundas la piedra; no te van a castrar.

Truénate.

No retrocede el toro: no da un paso hacia atrás
si no es para escarbar sangre y furia en la arena,
unir todas sus fuerzas, y desde las pezuñas
abalanzarse luego con decisión de rayo.

Abalánzate.

Gran toro que en el bronce y en la piedra has mamado,
y en el granito fiero paciste la fiereza:
revuélvete en el alma de todos los que han visto
la luz primera en esta península ultrajada.

Revuélvete.

Partido en dos pedazos, este toro de siglos,
este toro que dentro de nosotros habita:
partido en dos mitades, con una mataría
y con la otra mitad moriría luchando.

Atorbellínate.

De la airada cabeza que fortalece el mundo,
del cuello como un bloque de titanes en marcha,
brotará la victoria como un ancho bramido
que hará sangrar al mármol y sonar a la arena.

Sálvate.

Despierta, toro: esgrime, desencadena, víbrate.
Levanta, toro: truena, toro, abalánzate.
Atorbellínate, toro: revuélvete.
Sálvate, denso toro de emoción y de España.

Sálvate.

I call for the bull from Spain

Rise, bull from Spain; get up, wake.
Awaken fully, bull of black foam,
that breathes light and oozes shadow,
and you concentrate the seas under your closed skin.

Awaken.

Awaken fully, for I notice you half-asleep,
a piece from the chest and another from the head:
for you have not yet woken like a bull wakes
when he is undertaken with wolfish betrayals.

Get up.

Sigh¹ your power, unfold your skeleton,
raise your forehead with the rotund axes,
like the two tools for scaring away the stars,
for threatening the sky with poles of tragedy

Yield yourself.

Bull in the spring, more of a bull than other times,
in Spain more of a bull, bull, than in other places.
Warmer than ever, more volcanic, bull,
that you irradiate, that you illuminate fire, straighten.

Unchain yourself.

Unchain the powerful heart which orientates you
across Spain's plazas, on their astral sand.
To skin you alive come wolves and eagles
that have always envied your rural beauty.

Straighten up.

They will not castrate you: you will not let arrive
to your attributes of abundant male,
that feline hand that wants to rip them out
from the root, unpunished: kick them, bull.

Vibrate.²

They will not absorb your rich blood,
they will not take your mineral eyes.
The skin wherein the light grows shinier³
they will not rip it out from the bull of torrential mercury.

Rebel.⁴

It's as if they wished to rid the sun of its skin,
the torrent, of its foam, with nail and peck.
They will not castrate you, such masculine power
that fertilises stone; they will not castrate you.

Thunder.²

The bull does not hesitate⁵: it does not take a step back
if not to scrabble up blood and fury in the sand,
gather all its might, and from its nails
pounce afterward with the decision of a lightning.

Pounce.

Great bull that in bronze and stone you have fed,⁶
and within the fierce granite you grazed fierceness:
stir in the soul of everyone that has seen
the first light in this outraged peninsula.

Rebel.⁴

Torn in two pieces, this bull of centuries,
that bull that inside us inhabits:
torn into two halves, with one it would kill
and with the other half it would die fighting.

Whirl.

From the irate head that strengthens the world,
from the neck like a marching block of titans,
victory will bloom like a wide bellow
that will make marble bleed and sand echo.

Save yourself.

Awaken, bull: yield, unchain, vibrate.²
Get up, bull: thunder, bull, pounce.
Whirl, bull: rebel.⁴
Save yourself, dense bull of emotion and Spain.

Save yourself.

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¹ The original verb “resopla” is more like “blow”, or it could be otherwise translated as “sigh out” at the least.
² The verb is conjugated in imperative first person; literally, it would be “vibrate yourself” or “thunder yourself”.
³ Originally it wasn't “grows shinier”, but literally “picks up shine”.
⁴ More literally the physical action of “stirring” against something. “Rebel” is a more abstract translation. Has been translated as “stir” in some other occurrences.
⁵ Not literally “hesitate”, but rather “go back”.
⁶ Original verb “mamar” refers to suckling on a mother's breast to feed. (No such straightforward verb in English).

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Para la libertad

Miguel Hernández.

Para la libertad sangro, lucho, pervivo.
Para la libertad, mis ojos y mis manos,
como un árbol carnal, generoso y cautivo,
doy a los cirujanos.

Para la libertad siento más corazones
que arenas en mi pecho: dan espumas mis venas,
y entro en los hospitales, y entro en los algodones
como en las azucenas.

Para la libertad me desprendo a balazos
de los que han revolcado su estatua por el lodo.
Y me desprendo a golpes de mis pies, de mis brazos,
de mi casa, de todo.

Porque donde unas cuencas vacías amanezcan,
ella pondrá dos piedras de futura mirada
y hará que nuevos brazos y nuevas piernas crezcan
en la carne talada.

Retoñarán aladas de savia sin otoño
reliquias de mi cuerpo que pierdo en cada herida.
Porque soy como el árbol talado, que retoño:
porque aún tengo la vida.

For liberty

For liberty I bleed, fight, live.¹
For liberty, my eyes and my hands,
like a carnal tree, generous and captive,
I give to the surgeons.

For liberty I feel more hearts
than sand in my chest: foam blooms from my veins,²
and I enter hospitals, and I enter cottons
like lilies.

For liberty I unfold in bullets³
of those that have dragged their statue across the mud.
And I unfold in punches³ from my feet, from my arms,
from my house, from everything.

Because where empty sockets awaken⁴,
she will place two stones of future gaze
and make new arms and new legs grow
in the cut-down flesh.

Autumnless wings of sap will sprout
relics from my body that I lose in each wound.
Because I am like the cut-down tree, for I sprout:
because I still have life.

---

¹Original verb ("pervivo") refers more so to keep living beyond or despite something (time, etc).
²I reworked the phrase. Directly it would be something like "my veins give foams".
³"Unfold into" was one of many expressive choices that could have been made. The original verb "desprender" is more like "detach".
⁴Original verb "amanecer" is basically the verb form of "sunrise", but that doesn't exist in English so I chose "awaken".

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Nel Pozu María Luisa

Anonymous • Miners⁰.

Nel pozu María Luisa,
Trianlará lará, trianlará.
Morrieron cuatro mineros,
Mira, mira Maruxina,
Mira como vengo yo.

Santa Bárbara bendita,
Trianlará lará, trianlará.
Patrona de los mineros,
Mira, mira Maruxina, mira,
Mira como vengo yo.

Traigo la camisa roxa,
Trianlará lará, trianlará.
De sangre d'un compañeru,
Mira, mira Maruxina, mira,
Mira cómo vengo yo.

Traigo la cabeza rota,
Trianlará lará, trianlará.
Que me la rompió un costeru,
Mira, mira Maruxina, mira,
Mira cómo vengo yo.

El alma tengo partía,
Trianlará lará, trianlará.
Nun será l'últimu duelu,
Mira, mira Maruxina, mira,
Mira cómo vengo yo.

Unos dicen que ye Dios,
Trianlará lará, trianlará.
Otros dicen «non lo creo»,
Mira, mira Maruxina, mira,
Mira cómo vengo yo.

Qué importa categoríes,
Trianlará lará, trianlará.
Quedaron en el testeru,
mira, mira Maruxina, mira,
mira cómo vengo yo.

El casu ye que ca poco,
Trianlará lará, trianlará.
La muerte llama a conceyu,
Mira, mira Maruxina, mira,
Mira cómo vengo yo.

Me cago en los capataces,
Trianlará lará, trianlará.
Acionistas y esquiroles,
Mira, mira Maruxina, mira,
Mira cómo vengo yo.

In the María Luisa Well

In the María Luisa well,
Tralala, tralala.
Four miners died,
Look, look Maruxina¹, look,
Look at the state I'm in².

Blessed Santa Bárbara,
Tralalala, tralala.
Patron of the miners.
Look, look Maruxina, look,
Look at the state I'm in.

My shirt is red³
Tralalala, tralala.
With a comrade's blood.
Look, look Maruxina, look,
Look at the state I'm in.

My head is broken,³
Tralalala, tralala.
A borehole smashed it,⁴
Look, look Maruxina, look,
Look at the state I'm in.

My soul is split,³
Tralalala, tralala.
It won't be the last fight,
Look, look Maruxina, look,
Look at the state I'm in.

Some say it's God,
Tralalala, tralala.
Others say «I don't think so»
Look, look Maruxina, look,
Look at the state I'm in.

What do categories matter,
Tralalala, tralala.
They were left at the frontline.
Look, look Maruxina, look,
Look at the state I'm in.

The thing is, little by little,
Tralalala, tralala.
Death calls the council⁵,
Look, look Maruxina, look,
Look at the state I'm in.

Fuck the taskmasters,
Tralalala, tralala.
Shareholders and strikebreakers,
Look, look Maruxina, look,
Look at the state I'm in.

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¹Galician name adapted to Asturian. Seems to be related to Maruxaina.
²More literally "see how I'm coming" as in "see what they've done to me/in which state I've been left in".
³Literally used with the verb "bring"; I bring my shirt red; I bring my head broken.
⁴Mining term. I'm unsure as for an actual literal translation that I can 100% confirm, but this seems to be the most accurate I've found.
⁵"Council" as in neighbourhood council/reunion.

Aunque es de Noche

San Juan de la Cruz.

Qué bien sé yo la fonte que mana y corre,
aunque es de noche.

Aquella eterna fonte está ascondida.
qué bien sé yo dó tiene su manida
aunque es de noche.

Su origen no lo sé, pues no le tiene,
mas sé que todo origen della viene
aunque es de noche.

Sé que no puede ser cosa tan bella
y que cielos y tierra beben della
aunque es de noche.

Bien sé que suelo en ella no se halla
y que ninguno puede vadealla,
aunque es de noche.

Su claridad nunca es escurecida,
y sé que toda luz de ella es venida,
aunque es de noche.

Sé ser tan caudalosos sus corrientes,
que infiernos, cielos riegan, y las gentes,
aunque es de noche.

El corriente que nace desta fuente
bien sé que es tan capaz y omnipotente,
aunque es de noche.

El corriente que de estas dos procede,
sé que ninguna de ellas le precede,
aunque es de noche.

Aquesta eterna fonte está escondida
en este vivo pan por darnos vida,
aunque es de noche.

Aquí se está llamando a las criaturas,
y de esta agua se hartan, aunque a escuras,
porque es de noche.

Aquesta viva fuente que deseo,
en este pan de vida yo la veo,
aunque es de noche.

Although it is Night

How well I know the fountain that flows and runs,
although it is night.

That eternal fountain is hidden,
for I know where her permanence is,
Although it is night.

Her origin I do not know, for she has not one,
though I know that all origins come from her
although it is night.

I know that such a beautiful thing cannot be
and that skies and lands drink from her
although it is night.

Well I know that she is not found on the ground
and that no man can cross her,
although it is night.

Her clarity is never obscured,
and all know all light comes from her,
although it is night.

I know her currents to be so abundant,
for they water hells, heavens and people,
although it is night.

The current that blooms from this fountain
I know to be so omnipotent and able,
although it is night.

The current that from these two proceeds,
I know none of them precedes it,
although it is night.

This eternal fountain is hidden
within this grand bread to give us life,
although it is night.

Here the creatures are being called,
for them to feast on this water although it is dark,
because it is night.

This living fountain that I desire,
in this bread of life I see her,
although it is night.

Forma

Vicente Aleixandre.

Se iba quedando callada
hasta que la sombra espesa
se hizo cuerpo tuyo.
¡Ya te tengo! ¡Ya te tengo!
Aquí la sombra del cuarto,
piel fina, piel en mis dedos.
siente, tiembla. Fina seda
que palpita humanamente
entre mis dedos de nieve.
Mis dedos de hielo rizan
tu delicada quietud,
totalidad de este cuarto,
corporal y muda, extensa
sobre la estancia dormida.
Para mis ojos azules
tu negra forma se entrega,
cuajada y pura, inocente,
oh soledad de mi cuarto.
Pero no quiero mirarte.
A oscuras, paredes justas,
cámara, entraña, me aprietas;
te siento exacta y te amo,
cerrazón de vida y muerte,
negra posesión del aire,
sombra que habito y que siento
contra mi piel semejante.
Blancas paredes fronteras,
densa presencia estrechada,
cuerpo que ciego adivino
en mis sentidos dorados.

Form

It was quieting down
until the thick shadow
became your body.
I have you now! I have you now!¹
Here the room's shadow,
fine skin, skin on my fingertips.
Feel, shake. Fine silk
that throbs humanly
in-between my fingers of snow.
My icy fingers curl²
your delicate stillness,
totality of this room,
corporeal and mute, grand
over the sleeping residence.
For my blue eyes
your black form gives itself over,
curdled and pure, innocent,
oh solitude of my room.
But I do not want to look at you.
At night, righteous walls,
camera, strange, you tighten your grip on me;
I feel you exactly and I love you,
closure of life and death,
black possession of the air,
shadow which I inhabit and feel
against my resemblant skin.
White-walled frontiers,³
dense stretched presence,
a body which I blindly guess
with my golden senses.

---

¹Could also be translated as "Now I've caught you!"
²Originally, "fingers [made] of ice".
³Originally, "white walls[,] frontiers".

---

No em preguntis, amor, per què t'estimo

Rosa Leveroni.

No em preguntis, amor, per què t'estimo,
si no trobo raons. Però podria
dir-te del rossinyol la meravella
ni el batec de la sang, ni la segura
dolcesa de l'arrel dins de la terra,
ni aquest plorar suau de les estrelles?
És que sabries, cert, l'ardent misteri
d'unes ales signant l'atzur en calma,
o el fluir de la font, o de la branca
aquest respir beat quan l'aire passa?...
No em preguntis, amor, per què t'estimo,
si et tenia dins meu i ni sabria
ja veure't com a tu, perquè respires
dintre del meu respir, si dels meus somnis
ets l'únic somni viu que no podria
arrabassar la Mort...

Do not ask me, love, why I love you

Do not ask me, love, why I love you,
when I cannot find reasons. But could
I tell you the wonder of the nightingale
nor the throbbing of the blood, nor the sure
sweetness of the root within the soil,
nor this soft pleading from the stars?
You would certainly know the ardent mystery
from a pair of wings calmly crossing the blue¹,
or the flowing of the fountain, or from the branch
this breathing, blessed as the air passes…?
Do not ask me, love, why I love you,
If I had you inside of me and I would not even know
to see you as yourself², because you breathe
inside my own breath, when, from my dreams,
you are the only living dream that
Death could not take away…

---

¹Original verb was signing the blue. Original word (azur) refers specifically to an incredibly intense sky blue.
²Slightly loose translation.

Noizbait artea bihurtu zaigu

Haritz♡

Noizbait artea bihurtu zaigu
algoritmoez egina
Gure burmuina, kableatuta,
Gertatu zaigu berdina
Algoritmoek islatzen dute
Gaurko egia gordina
Ohartu baino lehenago gu
Izango gara makina

At some point art has become

At some point art has become
Made by algorithms
Our brain, wired,
The same has happened to us
Algorithms showcase
The raw truth of today
Before we can realise
We will be machine

¡Ay mísero de mí!

Calderón de la Barca.

Ay mísero de mí! ¡Y ay infelice!
Apurar, cielos, pretendo
ya que me tratáis así,
qué delito cometí
contra vosotros naciendo;
aunque si nací, ya entiendo
qué delito he cometido.
Bastante causa ha tenido
vuestra justicia y rigor;
pues el delito mayor
del hombre es haber nacido.

Sólo quisiera saber,
para apurar mis desvelos
(dejando a una parte, cielos,
el delito de nacer),
qué más os pude ofender,
para castigarme más.
¿No nacieron los demás?
Pues si los demás nacieron,
¿qué privilegios tuvieron
que yo no gocé jamás?

Nace el ave, y con las galas
que le dan belleza suma,
apenas es flor de pluma,
o ramillete con alas
cuando las etéreas salas
corta con velocidad,
negándose a la piedad
del nido que deja en calma:
¿y teniendo yo más alma,
tengo menos libertad?

Nace el bruto, y con la piel
que dibujan manchas bellas,
apenas signo es de estrellas,
gracias al docto pincel,
cuando, atrevido y crüel,
la humana necesidad
le enseña a tener crueldad,
monstruo de su laberinto
¿y yo con mejor distinto
tengo menos libertad?

Nace el pez, que no respira,
aborto de ovas y lamas,
y apenas bajel de escamas
sobre las ondas se mira,
cuando a todas partes gira,
midiendo la inmensidad
de tanta capacidad
como le da el centro frío:
¿y yo con más albedrío
tengo menos libertad?

Nace el arroyo, culebra
que entre flores se desata,
y apenas, sierpe de plata,
entre las flores se quiebra,
cuando músico celebra
de las flores la piedad
que le dan la majestad,
el campo abierto a su ida:
¿y teniendo yo más vida
tengo menos libertad?

En llegando a esta pasión
un volcán, un Etna hecho,
quisiera sacar del pecho
pedazos del corazón.
¿Qué ley, justicia o razón
negar a los hombres sabe
privilegio tan süave,
excepción tan principal,
que Dios le ha dado a un cristal,
a un pez, a un bruto y a un ave?

Ah, miserable that I am!

Ah, miserable that I am! And ah, unhappy!
Do explain¹, heavens, I intend
as you treat me in such a way,
what crime I have committed
against yourselves by being born;
albeit if I have been born, I then understand
what crime I committed.
Sufficient reason have your
justice and rigor had;
as man's greatest crime
is to have been born.

I would only wish to know,
to justify my worry²
(setting to the side, heavens,
the crime of being born),
how else I could have offended you,
as to punish me more.
Were the others not born?
Then, if the others were born,
what privileges did they have
that I have not ever enjoyed?

The bird is born, and with the galas
that provide it with great beauty,
it is hardly a feathery flower,
or a corsage with wings
when the ethereal rooms
it cuts³ with velocity,
opposing the mercy
of the nest which it leaves in stillness:⁴
and as I have more of a soul
have I less liberty?

The brute is born, and with the skin
in which beautiful stains are drawn⁵,
it is hardly a sign of the stars,
thanks to the wise paintbrush,
when, brave and cruel,
the human necessity
teaches him to have cruelty,
monster of his labyrinth:
and I, with better instinct
have less liberty?

A fish is born, which does not breathe,
abortion of eggs and leaves,
and hardly a scaly ship
over the waves it looks at itself,
when it turns everywhere,
measuring the immensity
of the capacity
which the cold centre provides:
and I, with more will,
have less liberty?

The river is born, serpent
that undoes within flowers,
and hardly a silver snake,
between the flowers it breaks,
when musically it celebrates
the mercy from the flowers
that are given to his majesty,
the field open to his leaving:
and as I have more life
have I less liberty?

As I arrive to this passion
made into a volcano, an Etna⁶,
I want to rip out from my chest
pieces of my heart.
What law, justice or reason
knows to deny men
such a soft privilege,
an exception so imperative,
that God has given a crystal
to a fish, a brute and a bird?

---

¹Contextualised translation of the original verb (apurar) which means to clear something up.
²Contextualised translation (apurar –> justify) + loose translation (desvelos [sleepless nights] –> worry).
³It cuts through.
⁴Originally, it leaves in calm.
⁵Originally in active voice.
⁶Etna is a volcano in Sicily, Italy.

Escena XIX⁰

Calderón de la Barca.

Es verdad, pues: reprimamos
esta fiera condición,
esta furia, esta ambición,
por si alguna vez soñamos.
Y sí haremos, pues estamos
en mundo tan singular,
que el vivir sólo es soñar;
y la experiencia me enseña,
que el hombre que vive, sueña
lo que es, hasta despertar.

Sueña el rey que es rey, y vive
con este engaño mandando,
disponiendo y gobernando;
y este aplauso, que recibe
prestado, en el viento escribe
y en cenizas le convierte
la muerte (¡desdicha fuerte!):
¡que hay quien intente reinar
viendo que ha de despertar
en el sueño de la muerte!

Sueña el rico en su riqueza,
que más cuidados le ofrece;
sueña el pobre que padece
su miseria y su pobreza;
sueña el que a medrar empieza,
sueña el que afana y pretende,
sueña el que agravia y ofende,
y en el mundo, en conclusión,
todos sueñan lo que son,
aunque ninguno lo entiende.

Yo sueño que estoy aquí,
destas prisiones cargado;
y soñé que en otro estado
más lisonjero me vi.
¿Qué es la vida? Un frenesí.
¿Qué es la vida? Una ilusión,
una sombra, una ficción,
y el mayor bien es pequeño;
que toda la vida es sueño,
y los sueños, sueños son.

Scene Nineteenth

It is true, then: let us repress
this feral condition,
this fury, this ambition,
for if we ever dream.
And we will, for we are
inside a world so singular,
that to live is only to dream;
and experience teaches me
that he who lives, dreams
what he is, until awakening.

The king dreams that he is king, and lives
with this lie directing,
commanding and governing;
and this applause, which he receives
borrowed, writes in the wind
and is turned to ashes by
death (miserable force!):¹
for there is who tries to reign
seeing he must awaken
inside the dream of death!

The rich dreams inside his fortune,
which offers him more care;
the poor dreams that he suffers
from his misery and poorness;²
dreams he who begins thriving,
dreams he who steals and pretends,
dreams he who aggravates and offends,
and inside the world, in conclusion,
everyone dreams what they are,
albeit nobody understands it.

I dream that I am here,
burdened by these prisons;
and I dreamt that in another state
I was more fortunate.³
What is life? A frenzy.
What is life? An illusion,
A shadow, fiction,
and the greater good is small;
for all of life is but a dream,
and dreams are but dreams.

---

⁰Scene nineteenth in Life is a Dream is dedicated entirely to this monologue, which is why I haven't chosen to name it after its first line.
¹Originally not miserable force, but something akin to miserably strong (fuerte [adj] used instead of fuerza [noun/sust]).
²Note the hyperbaton.
³Original adjective was not straightforwardly fortunate, but rather something like flattered, compliment-worthy...

Noizbait lorarik politena aukin zenun⁰

Marino Bilbao.

Noizbait lorarik politena aukin zenun.
Zorutik hartu,
usteltzen ikusi.
Noizbait lorarik politena aukin zenun.
Polit hori faltan somatzen duzu,
Usainaz ahazteaz beldur zara.
Noizbait lorarik politena aukin zenun.
Oin gogoan soilik,
Beste bat hiltzeko beldurrez.

Once you had the most beautiful flower

Once you had the most beautiful flower.
You picked it up,
You watched it rot.
Once you had the most beautiful flower.
Now you miss its beauty. Now you are afraid to forget the smell.
Once you had the most beautiful flower.
Now only in memory
Afraid to kill another one.

---

⁰This poem has been brought to me and translated by my wonderful friend Haritz!

Tormenta

Juan Ramón Jiménez.

Fear. Contained breath. Cold sweat. The low, terrible sky drowns the sunrise. (There's nowhere to escape). Silence… Love stops. Blame trembles. Guilt closes its eyes. More silence…
The thunder, deaf, roaring, endless, like a yawn that doesn't quite finish, like an enormous weight of stone that fell from the zenith to town, encircles, widely,¹ the deserted morning. (There's nowhere to flee). Everything that is weak —flowers, birds— disappears from life.
Timidly, Fright² looks, through the halfopen window, at God, who is tragically illuminated. Over there in the East, between frayed clouds³, mallows and roses are seen, sad, dirty, cold, for they cannot defeat the darkness. The six o'clock car, although seemingly four⁴, is felt around the corner, in the midst of a rainfall, the driver singing to frighten Fear away. Then, a vintage cart, empty, rapidly…
Angelus! A hard, abandoned Angelus sobs in between the thundering. The last Angelus of the world? And it wants for the bell to end soon or for it to echo louder, much louder, for it to drown out the storm. And it sways from one side to another, and it cries, and what is wanted isn't known…
(There's nowhere to escape). Hearts are rigid. Children call out from everywhere…
—What will be of Platero, so alone inside the defenseless corral block?

---

Source
Tormenta • Capítulo LXXI. Storm • Chapter LXXI | Platero Y Yo (Platero And I), JRJ. (1917)

¹Originally adverb of long, not wide, but widely is more concise.
²Capitalised for clarity.
³Moreso “tears of clouds” or “torn-up clouds”, but frayed is more concise.
⁴Moreso “although it seems to be four”, but utilised expression is more concise.

Conjugaciones: 1 — Álbum

Mario Benedetti.

Cómo quisiera fotografiar
minucia por minucia
pedazos de futuro
y colocar las instantáneas
en un álbum
para poder hojearlo
lenta morosamente
en un manso remanso
del pasado

Conjugations: 1 — Album

How I wish I could photograph
trifle by trifle
little pieces of the future
and place the snapshots
in an album
to be able to skim through it
slow, gradually
in a docile backwater
from the past

Conjugaciones: 2 — Claves

Mario Benedetti.

Algunas claves
del futuro
no están en el presente
ni en el pasado
están
extrañamente
en el futuro

Conjugations: 2 — Keys

Some keys
for the future
are not in the present
nor in the past
they are
strangely
in the future

Conjugaciones: 3 — Variantes

Mario Benedetti.

La muerte es sólo una
de las varias variantes
del futuro
quizá la más primaria

acerca de las otras
espléndidas variantes
no han concluido aún
las investigaciones.

Conjugaciones: 3 — Variants

Death is only one
of the various variants
of the future
perhaps the most primary

about the other
splendid variants
the investigations
have not yet concluded.

Conjugaciones: 4 — Complemento

Mario Benedetti.

Para entender mejor
cuán reaccionario
era Jorge Manrique
hay que desarrollar
el complemento
de su tesis
o sea
todo tiempo futuro
será peor.

Conjugations: 4 — Complement

To better understand
how reactionary
Jorge Manrique was¹
we must elaborate
on the complement
of his thesis
that is
any future time
will be worse.²

---

¹Jorge Manrique was a medieval Spanish poet known for his elegies, which you can find here.
²Benedetti is referencing Manrique's first (I) couplet to the death of his father.

Conjugaciones: 5 — Después

Mario Benedetti.

El futuro no es
una página en blanco

es una fe
de erratas.

Conjugations: 5 — After

The future is not
a blank page

it is a list
of erratums.

Conjugaciones: 6 — Ausencia

Mario Benedetti.

En la última
asamblea
del futuro
faltaré
sin aviso.

Conjugations: 6 — Absence

At the last
assembly
from the future
I will be absent¹
without warning.

---

¹There exist various possible interpretations of faltaré. (I will be missing, I will not come...); I chose mine to incorporate the title.

Conjugaciones: 7 — Rigores

Mario Benedetti.

En las fronteras
del futuro
hay un control
estricto

sólo son admitidos
los sobrevivientes.

Conjugations: 7 — Rigours

At the borders
of the future
there is a strict
control

only the survivors
are admitted.

Conjugaciones: 8 — Previsión

Mario Benedetti.

De vez en cuando es bueno
ser consciente
de que hoy
de que ahora
estamos fabricando
las nostalgias
que descongelarán
algún futuro.

Conjugations: 8 — Forecast

Every so often it is good
to be aware
that today
that right now
we are creating
the nostalgias
that will unfreeze
in some future.

Conjugaciones: 9 — Plurales

Mario Benedetti.

Hay
ayeres
y mañanas
pero no hay
hoyes.

Conjugations: 9 — Plurals

There are
yesterdays
and tomorrows
but there are no
todays.

---

Poeta-Narcís

Josep Palau i Fabre.

Vers: sigues igual a mi.
Jo em veig en tu si em veus.
Som una o dues veus?
Quina, però, és de qui?

Poet-Narcissus

Verse: you and I are the same.¹
I see myself in you if you see me.
Are we one or two voices?
Which one, then, is whose?

---

¹The literal translation would be "you are the same as me".

Soledad

Federico García Lorca.

Soledad pensativa
sobre piedra y rosal, muerte y desvelo
donde libre y cautiva,
fija en su blanco vuelo,
canta la luz herida por el hielo.

Soledad con el estilo
de silencio sin fin y arquitectura,
donde la planta en vilo
del ave en la espesura
no consigue clavar tu carne oscura.

En ti dejo olvidada
la frenética lluvia de mis venas,
mi cintura cuajada:
y rompiendo cadenas,
rosa débil seré por las arenas.

Rosa de mi desnudo
sobre paños de cal y sordo fuego,
cuando roto ya el nudo,
limpio de luna, y ciego,
cruce tus finas ondas de sosiego.

En la curva del río
el doble cisne su blancura canta.
Húmeda voz sin frío
fluye de su garganta,
y por los juncos rueda y se levanta.

Con su rosa de harina
niño desnudo mide la ribera,
mientras el bosque afina
su música primera
en rumor de cristales y madera.

Coros de siemprevivas
giran locos pidiendo eternidades.
Sus señas expresivas
hieren las dos mitades
del mapa que rezuma soledades.

El arpa y su lamento
prendido en nervios de metal dorado,
tanto dulce instrumento
resonante o delgado,
buscan ¡oh soledad! tu reino helado.

Mientras tú, inaccesible
para la verde lepra del sonido,
no hay altura posible
ni labio conocido
por donde llegue a ti nuestro gemido.

Solitude

Pensive solitude
Atop stone and roses, death and restlessness¹
where free and captive,
fixed in its white flight,
the light sings, wounded by ice.

Solitude with style
of endless silence and architecture,
where the plant in suspense
from the bird in the thicket
cannot pierce your dark flesh.²

Within you I leave forgotten
the frenzied rain from my veins,
my curdled waist:
and, breaking chains,
I will be a weak rose across the sand.³

The rose of my nakedness
atop rags of lime and deaf fire.
When, knot now broken,
clean from the moon, and blind
I cross⁴ your fine waves of quietude.

At the river's curve
the double swan sings its whiteness.
A humid voice without coldness
rushes from his throat
and rolls and stands around the reeds.

With his floury rose⁵
a naked child measures the riverside
while the woods tune
their first music
in a rumour of glass and wood.⁶

Choruses of immortelles
spin crazily, asking for eternities.
Their expressive signals
wound the two halves
of the map which oozes solitudes.

The harp and its lament
burning in nerves of golden metal,
so many instruments
whether resonant or thin,
search, oh solitude! for your icy kingdom.

While you, inaccesible
to the green leprosy of sound,
there is no possible altitude
or known mouth⁷
through which our moan arrives to you.

---

⁰This poem is an homage to Spanish poet and academic Fray Luis de León. Similarly, this translation itself is a commemoration for García Lorca's 90th death anniversary. Remember, always.
¹Originally, rose bush in place of roses.
²Originally, more akin to cannot manage to pierce...
³Literally the sands (pl) rather than the sand (sg).
⁴This could be I cross or it crosses.
⁵Originally flour rose, or "rose made of flour".
⁶Originally in plural (glasses), although it could be either crystals or glass(es).
⁷Originally lip(s) instead of mouth.

Preludio II

Federico García Lorca.

Sobre el cielo verde,
un lucero verde,
¿qué ha de hacer, amor,
¡ay!... sino perderse?

Las torres fundidas
con la niebla fría,
¿cómo han de mirarnos
con sus ventanitas?

Cien luceros verdes
sobre un cielo verde,
no ven a cien torres
blancas, en la nieve.

Y esta angustia mía
para hacerla viva,
he de decorarla
con rojas sonrisas.

Prelude II

Above the green sky,
a green star,
what must it do, love,
ay! if not get lost?¹

The towers, fused²
with the cold fog,
how shall they look at us
through their little windows?³

A hundred green stars
above a green sky,
do not see a hundred white
towers, on the snow.

And this distress of mine
to make it alive,
I shall decorate it
with red smiles.

---

¹Could also be interpreted as “lose itself”.
²I shifted the phrasal structure slightly, & “fused” could also be interpreted as “melted”.
³Originally, “with their little windows”.

FAQ

Q: Are you /Lorca's owner?
A: Yes! This is a continuation of it.

Q: Why did you make this?
A: I really enjoyed working on /Lorca back then, and I wanted it back. I'm busier now, but I'll still do my best to update this. Also, I have dozens of unarchived poems I've translated since /Lorca's tragic end, and a new array of literary and interpretative knowledge!

Q: I know you from somewhere else, may I reach out?
A: Yes! Reach out, but please don't tell people who I am. It's not that I mean to hide myself, but I'm taking this archive as a more impersonal and relaxed form of work this time around.

Q: Are you Spanish? Do you live in Spain? Is Spanish your first language?
A: Yes, yes, and yes! I'm born and raised in Northern Spain. I'm very passionate about my country in general.

Q: How come you feel qualified to translate these poems?
A: I've translated as a hobby for a good chunk of my life + I have an official C2 in English. Also, I just like Literature and Linguistics. That's all a translator really has to have.

Q: Are these translations done by hand?
A: Yes. Obviously, I'm not a machine, so sometimes I will aid myself via translators, dictionaries or even the occassional thesaurus. But I (mostly) translate everything by real hand—by that I mean pen and paper—so if you ever doubt me, ask me and I'll gladly show you my translation drafts in my truly horrible, truly human handwriting!

Q: Why don't you have sources for the poems linked?
A: It's a tedious process, and I'm a single person working on this with not much free time. If you wish to know where a poem came from, please search it up or ask me privately. I'm more than happy to provide answers!

Q: I have more questions.
A: Message meeeee Message meeee oooh you want to message me your questions so baddddd. No, but actually. Do message me. I can be found in many forms. Send me one of those pigeons, won't you? I really like solving people's queries.

About regional poetry

Regional poetry carries that name due to simplicity for foreigners, and no brother should interpret it as anything more than that. I fully support the independence of the Catalan, Basque, Asturian, Galician, etc..., peoples, so long as that process benefits its people, its culture and it is executed either democratically or via the collective taking and consensus of its people. I am Asturian-Catalan and I will sporadically share such poetry. I do not understand Basque and I understand minimal (Eastern) Galician but if anyone desires to see Basque/Galician poetry please shoot me a DM/e-mail and if you are a native speaker I would be delighted to work with you. Thank you to Haritz for working with me!!!