Translation:Day of the Dead

The vague light...the dull day, The drizzle falls and wettens With its penetrating threads the city cold and deserted. Through the gloomy air an unseen hand throws A dark, opaque veil of lethal melancholy, And there is not anyone who, deep-down, is not calmed and recovered When they see the gray clouds of the sombre atmosphere, And when they hear above Sad and dark The sleepy accents Also extremely sad and uncertain With which the bells sound The mournful bells that speak to the living About the dead! And there is something anguished and uncertain That mixes its sound with that sound, And resonates unharmoniously in the concert That rises the bells up to touch death, For all those who have been! It is the voice of a bell That is marking the time, Today the same as tomorrow, Rhythmic, constant, and pleasant, One bell complains, And the other bell weeps, The former has the voice of an old woman, The latter that of a girl in prayer. The larger bells, that are twice as hard Ring with an accent of mystic scorn, But the bell that gives the time Laughs, it does not cry. It has in its dry tone subtle ironies, Its voice seems to speak of joys, of happiness, Of pleasures, of dates, of parties, and of dances, Of the worries that fill our days, It is a voice of the century among a chorus of monks, And with its notes it laughs, Skeptic and mocking, Of the bell that begs Of the bell that implores And of whatever chorus that commemorates, And it's because with its jingling It measured out human pain And marked the pain's end; That's why it laughs at the serious bell That rings there above with a funeral sound, That's why it interrupts the sad concerts With which the holy bell cries for the dead... Don't listen to it, oh bells! Don't listen to it, To the clamor of its serious voice, Ask the people to sleep now Far from life, free from desire, Free from the base human battles! Follow in the air your swinging, Don't listen to it, bells! Against the impossible what could desire do? Over there up high it rings, Rhythmic and serene, That voice of gold Without its sisters impeding it They that pray in chorus The bell of the clock Ring, ring, ring now And says that it marks With its rich vibration The forgetfullness of the time, That after the veil, Through which every dead person passes, In a room-in-mourning And with their families nearby In a painful state While the light of the candles Illuminates the coffin And the wreaths of iris That after the sadness Of their cries of pain, Of their words of bitterness, Of their heart-wrenching weeping, It marked the moment In which with the lethargy Of mourning thought fled From the dead, and feeling... Six months later or ten... And today, the Day of the Dead, now that melancholy floats in the gray fog, In which the drizzle falls, drop by drop, And with it sadnesses dulls the nerves, And envelops in a cloak of the gloomy city, It has measured the hour and the day In which to every house, lugubrious and empty After the brief mourning happiness returns; It that has marked the time of the dance In which exactly a year ago, an airy dress, Worn by a girl for the first time, whose mother sleeps Forgotten and alone, in the cemetery It rings indifferent to the monk's voice Of the serious bell and its serious song; It that has measure the precise time, In which to every mouth, that pain had stamped, As if by magic a smile returned, That precursor to laughter, It that has measured the time in which the widower Spoke of suicide and asked for arsenic When in the very room, recently perfumed, Floated the aroma of carbolic acid And it has marked later the time in which, speechless With the emotions which which joy overwhelms, So that they unified it with sacred knot, In the same church it was with another bride; It does not understand the mystery Of those pains that fill the air, And it sees in life every tragi-comedic thing And it continues marking in the same way The same enthusiasm and heedlessness The flight of time that erases everything! And that is what's distressing and uncertain That floats in the sound That is the ironic note that resonates in the concert That the bells raise in announcing death. For all those who have been! That is the final, subtle voice, Of vibrations of crystal That with young accent Indifferent to good and bad, It measures the same the vile hour As the sublime one or the fateful And it resounds, In the dark, melancholy heights Without having in its sound Clear, rhythmic, and rich, The sounds Lazy and saddest and uncertain Of that mysterious chorus, With which beg the bells, the bells, The mournful bells That speak to the living About the dead!

Día de difuntos