Border of a Dream: Selected Poems of Antonio Machado (Spanish Edition) (16 page)

de frente, torvos y fieros.

5

Los tres hermanos contemplan

el triste hogar en silencio;

y con la noche cerrada

arrecia el frío y el viento.

—Hermanos, ¿no tenéis leña?

—dice Miguel.

—responde el mayor.

milagrosamente, ha abierto

la gruesa puerta cerrada

con doble barra de hierro.

El hombre que ha entrado tiene

el rostro del padre muerto.

Un halo de luz dorada

orla sus blancos cabellos.

Lleva un haz de leña al hombro

y empuña un hacha de hierro.

El indiano

1

De aquellos campos malditos,

Miguel a sus dos hermanos

compró una parte, que mucho

caudal de América trajo,

y aun en tierra mala, el oro

luce mejor que enterrado,

y más en mano de pobres

que oculto en orza de barro.

Diose a trabajar la tierra

con fe y tesón el indiano,

y a laborar los mayores

sus pegujales tornaron.

Ya con macizas espigas,

preñadas de rubios granos,

a los campos de Miguel

tornó el fecundo verano;

y ya de aldea en aldea

se cuenta como un milagro,

que los asesinos tienen

la maldición en sus campos.

Ya el pueblo canta una copla

que narra el crimen pasado:

“A la orilla de la fuente

lo asesinaron.

¡Qué mala muerte le dieron

los hijos malos!

En la laguna sin fondo

al padre muerto arrojaron.

No duerme bajo la tierra

el que la tierra ha labrado.”

2

Miguel, con sus dos lebreles

y armado de su escopeta,

hacia el azul de los montes,

enuna tarde serena,

caminaba entre los verdes

chopos de la carretera,

y oyó una voz que cantaba:

“No tiene tumba en la tierra.

Entre los pinos del valle

del Revinuesa,

al padre muerto llevaron

hasta la Laguna Negra.”

La casa

1

La casa de Alvargonzález

era una casona vieja,

con cuatro estrechas ventanas,

separada de la aldea

cien pasos y enre dos olmos

que, gigantes centinelas,

sombra le dan en verano,

y en el otoño hojas secas.

Es casa de labradores,

gente aunque rica plebeya,

donde el hogar humeante

con sus escaños de piedra

se ve sin entrar, si tiene

abierta al campo la puerta.

Al arrimo del rescoldo

del hogar borbollonean

dos pucherillos de barro,

que a dos familias sustentan.

A diestra mano, la cuadra

y el corral; a la siniestra,

huerto y abejar, y, al fondo,

una gastada escalera,

que va a las habitaciones

partidas en dos viviendas.

Los Alvargonzález moran

con sus mujeres en ellas.

A ambas parejas que hubieron,

sin que lograrse pudieran,

dos hijos, sobrado espacio

les da la casa paterna.

En una estancia que tiene

luz al huerto, hay una mesa

con gruesa tabla de roble,

dos sillones de vaqueta,

colgado en el muro, un negro

ábaco de enormes cuentas,

y unas espuelas mohosas

sobre un arcón de madera.

Era una estancia olvidada

donde hoy Miguel se aposenta.

Y era allí donde los padres

veían en primavera

el huerto en flor, y en el cielo

de mayo, azul, la cigüeña

—cuando las rosas se abren

y los zarzales blanquean—

que enseñaba a sus hijuelos

a usar de las alas lentas.

Y en las noches del verano,

cuando la calor desvela,

desde la ventana al dulce

ruiseñor cantar oyeran.

Fue allí donde Alvargonzález,

del orgullo de su huerta

y del amor a los suyos,

sacó sueños de grandeza.

Cuando en brazos de la madre

vio la figura risueña

del primer hijo, bruñida

de rubio sol la cabeza,

del niño que levantaba

las codiciosas, pequeñas

manos a las rojas guindas

y a las moradas ciruelas,

o aquella tarde de otoño,

dorada, plácida y buena,

él pensó que ser podría

feliz el hombre en la tierra.

Hoy canta el pueblo una copla

que va de aldea en aldea:

“¡Oh casa de Alvargonzález,

qué malos días te esperan;

casa de los asesinos,

que nadie llame a tu puerta!”

2

Esa una tarde de otoño.

En la alameda dorada

no quedan ya ruiseñores;

enmudeció la cigarra.

Las últimas golondrinas,

que no emprendieron la marcha,

morirán, y las cigüeñas

de sus nidos de retamas,

en torres y campanarios,

huyeron.

de Alvargonzález, los olmos

sus hojas que el viento arranca

van dejando. Todavía

las tres redondas acacias,

en el atrio de la iglesia,

conservan verdes sus ramas,

y las castañas de Indias

a intervalos se desgajan

cuviertas de sus erizos;

tiene el rosal rosas grana

otra vez, y en las praderas

brilla la alegre otoñada.

En laderas y en alcores,

en ribazos y en cañadas,

el verde nuevo y la hierba,

aún del estío quemada,

alternan; los serrijones

pelados, las lomas calvas,

se cornonan de plomizas

nubes apelotonadas;

y bajo el pinar gigante

entre las marchitas zarzas

y amarillentos helechos,

corren las crecidas aguas

a engrosar el padre río

por canchales y barrancas.

Abunda en la tierra un gris

de plomo y azul de plata,

con manchas de roja herrumbre,

todo envuelto en luz violada.

¡Oh tierras de Alvargonzález,

en el corazón de España,

tierras pobres, tierras tristes,

tan tristes que tienen alma!

Páramo que curza el lobo

aullando a la luna clara

de bosque a bosque, baldíos

llenos de peñas rodadas,

donde roída de buitres

brilla una osamenta blanca;

pobres campos solitarios

sin caminos ni posadas,

¡oh pobres campos malditos,

pobres campos de me patria!

La tierra

1

Una mañana de otoño,

cuando la tierra se labra,

Juan y el indiano aparejan

las dos yuntas de la casa.

Martín se quedó en el huerto

arrancando hierbas malas.

2

Una mañana do otoño,

cuando los campos se aran,

sobre un otero, que tiene

el cielo de la mañana

por fondo, la parda yunta

de Juan lentamente avanza.

Cardos lampazos y abrojos,

avena loca y cizaña,

llenan la tierra maldita,

tenaz a pico y a ascarda.

Del corvo arado de roble

la hundida reja trabaja

con cano esfuerzo; parece,

que al par que hiende la entraña

del campo y hace camino

se cierra otra vez la zanja.

“Cuando el asesino labre

será su labor pesada;

antes que un surco en la tierra

tendrá una arruga en su cara.”

3

Martín que estaba en la huerta

cavando, sobre su azada

quedó apoyado un momento;

frío sudor le bañaba

el rostro.

la luna llena, manchada

de un arrebol purpurino,

lucía tras de la tapia

del huerto.

la sangre de horror helada.

La azada que hundió en la tierra

teñida de sangre estaba.

4

En la tierra en que ha nacido

supo afincar el indiano;

por mujer a una doncella

rica y hermosa ha tomado.

La hacienda de Alvargonzález

ya es suya, que sus hermanos

todo le vendieron: casa,

huerto, colmenar y campo.

Los asesinos

1

Juan y Martín, los mayores

de Alvargonzález, un día

pesada marcha emprendieron

con el alba, Duero arriba.

La estrella de la mañana

en el alto azul ardía.

Se iba tiñendo de rosa

la espesa y blanca neblina

de los valles y barrancos,

y algunas nubes plomizas

a Urbión, donde el Duero nace,

como un turbante ponían.

Se acercaban a la fuente.

El agua clara corría,

sonando cual si contara

una vieja historia, dicha

mil veces y que tuviera

mil veces que repetirla.

Ague que corre en el campo

dice en su monotonía:

Yo sé el crimen, ¿no es un crimen,

cerca del agua, la vida?

Al pasar los dos hermanos

relataba el agua limpia:

“A la vera de la fuente

Alvargonzález dormía.”

2

—Anoche, cuando volvía

a casa—Juan a su hermano

dijo—, a la luz de la luna

era la huerta un milagro.

Lejos, entre los rosales,

divisé un hombre inclinado

hacia la tierra; brillaba

una hoz de plata en su mano.

Después irguióse y, volviendo

el rostro, dio algunos pasos

por el huerto, sin mirarme,

y a poco lo vi encorvado

otra vez sobre la tierra.

Tenía el cabello blanco.

La luz llena brillaba,

y era la huerta un milagro.

3

Pasado habían el puerto

de Santa Inés, ya mediada

la tarde, una tarde triste

de noviembre, fría y parda.

Hacia la Laguna Negra

silenciosos caminaban.

4

Cuando la tarde caía,

entre las vetustas hayas,

y los pinos centenarios,

un rojo sol se filtraba.

Era un paraje de bosque

y peñas aborrascadas;

aquí bocas que bostezan

o monstruos de fierras garras;

allí una informe joroba,

allá una grotesca panza,

torvos hocicos de fieras

y dentaduras melladas,

rocas y rocas, y troncos

y troncos, ramas y ramas.

En el hondón de barranco

la noche, el miedo y el agua.

5

Un lobo surgió, sus ojos

lucían como dos ascuas.

Era la noche, una noche

húmeda, oscura y cerrada.

Los dos hermanos quisieron

volver. La selva ululaba.

Cien ojos fieros ardían

en la selva, a sus espaldas.

6

Llegaron los asesinos

hasta la Laguna Negra,

agua transparente y muda

que enorme muro de piedra,

donde los buitres anidan

y el eco duerme, rodea;

agua clara donde beben

las águilas de la sierra,

donde el jabalí del monte

y el ciervo y el corzo abrevan;

agua pura y silenciosa

que copia cosas eternas;

agua impasible que guarda

en su seno las estrellas.

¡Padre!, gritaron; al fondo

de la laguna serena

cayeron, y el eco ¡padre!

repitió de peña en peña.

1

As a youth Alvargonzález,

owner of a midsize hacienda

(comfortable in other lands

but here enjoying opulence)

falls for a young woman

at the fair of Berlanga.

The very year he meets her

he takes her as his wife.

Lavish is the marriage,

as those who saw remember;

for the wedding celebration

he takes charge of his village,

bringing in bagpipes and timbrels,

bandoras, flutes and guitars,

night fireworks from Valencia

and leaping dances from Aragón.

2

Alvar lives in happiness.

He tends the orchard and fields,

and engenders three sons,

in farmlands a wealth.

When they are grown he chooses

one to cultivate the orchards,

the second to care for sheep,

and the youngest for the church.

3

These laborers of the field

carry the blood of Cain.

Next to the farmhouse fireplace

blood calls envy into battle.

He marries off the older sons.

Even before children are born

the wives are busy raging

in a cauldron of discord.

The greed of the countryside

sees inheritance in death.

There is no joy. Sons brood

on what they hope to gain.

The youngest finds loose girls

far livelier than Latin texts,

and will not dress his head

with learning. One good day

he hangs up his cassock

and wanders to distant lands.

The mother sobs; the father

gives him birthright and blessing.

4

Now austere Alvargonzález

has a forehead of wrinkles.

The blue shadow on his face

begins to silver his beard.

One autumn morning

he walks alone into the fields;

he doesn’t take the greyhounds,

his cunning hunting dogs.

He trails sad and pensive

though the gold poplar grove;

he walks a great distance

to come on a bright spring.

He lies on the ground, spreads

a blanket over a stone,

and at the edge of the water

sleeps by the chattering brook.

The Dream

1

And Alvargonzález,

like Jacob, sees a ladder

rising from earth to heaven

and he hears a voice calling,

but the fates spin on.

Amid the tufted threads

twirling—some white, some gold—

lies a lock of black wool.

2

Three children are playing

at the farmhouse door.

Between the older brothers

hops a black-winged crow.

The mother sews, watching them,

stops, smiles, at times sings:

“Sons, what are you doing?”

They stare back in silence.

“Climb the mountain, my sons,

and come before nightfall

with an armful of brushwood

and make me a good fire.”

3

The men pile the firewood

on the Alvargonzález hearth;

the older tries to light it

but the flame sputters out.

“Father, the fire won’t take,

the wood is soaking wet.”

His brother comes to help.

He scatters chips and branches

over the logs of oak,

but the embers die down.

The youngest comes in.

Under the black chimney

in the kitchen, he starts a flame

lighting the whole house.

4

Then Alvargonzález lifts

his young son in his arms

and seats him on his knees:

“Your hands made the fire.

Though you were born last,

in my love you are first.”

The elder sons sneak out

through the corners of dream.

Between the two fugitives

glitters an iron hatchet.

That Evening

1

Over the naked fields

the full moon looms

stained with purplish red,

an enormous globe.

The sons of Alvargonzález

are walking silently

and see their father asleep

next to the bright spring.

2

The father’s face

is creased by a scowl between

his eyebrows: a dark gash

like the imprint of an ax.

He’s dreaming of his sons,

that his sons have raised knives,

and when he wakes he sees

what he dreamt is right.

3

Beside the bright spring

the father lies dead.

He has four stab wounds

between his chest and ribs;

his blood is pouring out;

a hatchet blow on his neck.

The bright running water

tells the crime of the fields

while the two murderers flee

into the beechwood grove.

They carry the body down

to Laguna Negra below

the Duero River. Behind them

they leave a bloody trail.

In the bottomless lake

that surrenders no secrets,

they tie a stone to his feet,

bequeathing him a grave.

4

The Alvargonzález blanket

is found next to the spring,

and on the way to the beeches

a rivulet of blood is seen.

No one from the village dares

to come near the pool,

and to dredge the lake is futile

since the lake cannot be dredged.

A peddler who comes

wandering through these lands

is tried in Dauria. The prisoner

dies by the horrible garrote.

5

After a few months

the mother dies of sorrow.

Those who find her dead

say that her stiffened hands

on her face clawed her face,

which lay hidden in them.

6

The sons of Alvargonzález

now own the fold and orchard,

the fields of wheat and rye

and meadows of fine grass,

the hives in the old elm

split by the lightning,

two ox teams for plowing,

a mastiff and a thousand sheep.

Other Days

1

Brambles are blossoming

and cherry trees whiten

and the gold bees suck

pollen for their hives,

and in their nests that crown

the church towers glow

the storks’ spindly pothooks.

The elms along the road

and the poplars on the banks

of deep rivers turn green,

looking for father Duero.

The firmament is blue,

the snowless mountains violet.

The land of Alvargonzález

overflows with richness.

He who worked it is dead

but earth doesn’t cover him.

2

Handsome land of Spain,

parched, fine and warlike

Castilla, of the long rivers,

with its fist of sierras

between Soria and Burgos,

with fortified ramparts

like huge helmets festooned

with Urbión,
²⁶
the final crest.

3

The sons of Alvargonzález

are riding dark mules together

along a steep path up

under the pines of Vinuesa

to reach the highway

from Salduero to Covaleda.

They’re going to buy cattle

and drive them to their village

and through the pine forest

they begin the day journey.

They climb above the Duero,

leaving behind the bridge

with stone arches and the idle

opulent house of the migrants.

The river dreams deep

in the valley, and their beasts’

iron shoes batter the rocks.

On the other bank of the Duero

a mournful voice is singing:

“The land of Alvargonzález

overflows with riches,

and he who worked the land

cannot sleep below the earth.”

4

Coming upon a spot

where the pinewood thickens,

the brother leading the way

spurs his dark mule, screaming,

—Goddamit, get going!

We’ve got miles and miles

before the night traps us.

The two sons of these fields

made of gorges and bitterness

remember an afternoon,

and quake in the mountain night.

In the densest part of the forest

again they hear the voices:

“The land of Alvargonzález

overflows with riches,

and he who worked the land

cannot sleep below the earth.”

5

The road beyond Salduero

follows a thread of water.

On both banks of the river

the pine trees grow and soar,

and great rocks loom blurry

while the low valley narrows.

Strong pines of the forest

with gigantic spreading tops

and tribes of naked roots

are clinging to the boulders.

Some of their trunks are silver,

their needles turning blue:

the young ones. The old ones

covered with leprous toadstools,

moss and gray lichen

gnaw their heavy bark.

The valley erased below them

and nothing on either side,

luan the elder, says, “Brother,

if Bias Antonio’s cattle

are grazing on Urbión,

we have a long road to go.”

“When we leave the mountain,

we can take a shortcut

by going by Laguna Negra

and cutting down to the port

from Santa Inés to Vinuesa.”

“Bad lands and worse road.

I swear to you, I don’t want

to see them again! Let’s do

our business in Covaleda,

stay the night, leave at daybreak

and ride back to the village

through the valley. Sometimes

the shortcut is the long way.”

By the river the brothers ride,

pondering how the centenary

forest hugely expands

with every step they take,

how the mountain’s rocky slope

closes down the horizon,

and the tumbling waters

seem to sing or recount:

“The land of Alvargonzález

overflows with riches,

and he who worked the land

cannot sleep below the earth.”

Punishment

1

Although greed has ready

a sheepfold for the sheep,

barns to store the wheat,

bags to hold the coins,

it has claws but owns no hands

skilled in working the soil.

So a year of abundance

succumbs to a year of poverty.

2

In the seeded fields grow

poppies soaked with blood.

The spikes and shoots of wheat

and oats are a rotting blight

The late frost kills

the fruit blossoms in the orchard,

and an evil curse falls

on sheep dying of disease.

God curses the two Alvagonzálezes

struggling in their lands,

and a year of poverty

precedes long years of misery.

3

It is a winter evening.

The snow falls in whirwinds.

The Alvargonzáleses watch

a fire which is almost out.

Both their minds are roped

to the same recollection

and their eyes are locked,

staring at the dying ashes

in the ancient hearth. They have

neither firewood nor sleep.

Night is a long deadening cold.

A smoking candle flame

is blackening the wall.

Wind shakes the flame and blows

it into a reddish gleam

around the two brooding heads

of the murderers.

The elder Alvargonzález

emitting a hoarse sigh

breaks the silence. He exclaims,

“Brother, we were evil!”

The wind batters the door,

shaking it on its hinges,

and echoing in the chimney

a long hollow groan.

Then a return of silence

and irregularly the wick

of the candle sputters

in the hard frozen air.

The younger says, “Brother,

let’s forget the old man!”

The Traveler

1

It is a winter evening.

Wind lashes the branches

of the poplars, and snow

settles on the white earth.

Under the snowfall a man

is riding on the road;

he is hooded up to his eyes,

enveloped in a black cape.

Entering the village he looks

for the Alvargonzález house

and stops before the door,

without dismounting. He knocks.

2

The two brothers hear

a pounding on the door

and an animal whose hoofs

are clapping the stones.

Both of them raise their eyes

bloated with terror and surprise.

“Who is it? Answer!” they shout.

“Miguel!” A sound from outside;

it is the voice of the traveler

who went to distant lands.

3

The big gate opens and in

rides a gentleman on horseback.

He leaps down, touching earth.

He is all covered with snow.

Once in his brothers’ arms,

he weeps a while in silence.

Then gives his horse to one,

to the other his cape and hat,

and in the peasant mansion

he looks for comforting fire.

4

The youngest of the brothers,

a boy and adventurer

who went beyond the seas,

is home as a rich emigrant.

He is wearing a black suit

made of the finest velvet,

and circling his waist

a broad belt of leather.

A heavy watch chain of gold

is buckled across his chest.

He is a tall robust man

whose eyes are large and black

and filled with melancholy.

His complexion brownish,

and over his forehead falls