The Error, Translation of Carlos Bousono’s poem: El Error


The Error, Translation of Carlos Bousono’s poem : El Error
 
                                    for Miguel Delibes
 
(There are just some words and phrases in this translation that I might yet want to modify or substitute with other alternative phrasing. T. Wignesan)
 
There must be an error in the calculation,
a hole in the sock, a trick in the game :
behind our backs somebody drinks all the alcohol of the said-one
         and gets drunk and is unable to stand up ;
somebody manages to conceal the harvest’s wheat and the cream
         of the meanings.
 
Search. in the bassement or the dolls’ quarters the reason for the
         crucifixion,
and then be obliged to hide the powerful event behind the fact of
         taking tea in the dining-room, below the vine arbour or in the 
shade of the cherry trees.
Doubtless one will find meaning behind each vile act,
the mathematics of suffering where each crack of the whip is a
         number.
Here you have the delightfulness of the encompassing of the
         system which provides for exclusion as well,
the co-existence of both the truths, the framework of impossibility.
Right here, in front of us, the superb fitting together of horror and
of music stands presented,
that which engenders the enthusiastic cipher, the melody of the act
         of birth and of death.
Faintly visible from an angle/a place the beauty of water spilled 
         over the floor,
the incessant leak from the eaves trough which makes us laugh.
Look ! How all of us dance around the fire,
we put one step after another over the firebrands without
         compulsion,
we get close to the flames with joy, we become familiar with the
         cinder(s).
Here we are dancing, enjoying ourselves, surrounding ourselves with         
        ceremony and with rites,
with the rhythm which makes us get together in the moment of
         the cremation.
Here we are without fear as if someone perhaps, distractedly perhaps,
         or enjoying himself perchance,
had undertaken for us to magically produce
pigeons full of surprise from the sombrero or in the pocket of the
         juggler,
from the other side of an incipient horizon gone feeble,
from where perchance we would be warned of it,
dissimulating away those emerging golds from the topmost heights,
an ambiguous error in the calculation,
a hole in the sock,
a huge trick in the game.
 
© T. Wignesan – Paris,  2013    

 

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