Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Aurelio Arturo

Song of the quiet night

In the balmy night, in the night,              
when the leaves rise until they are the stars,      
I hear the women grow in the mauve penumbra
and the falling of the shade from their lids, drop by drop.
  
I hear the broadening of their arms in the penumbra
and I could even hear the breaking of an ear of wheat in the field.     
  
A word sings in my heart, whispering  
green leaf  falling without end. In the balmy night,      
when the shade is the unrestrained growing of the trees,  
a long dream of prodigious journeys kisses me     
and there is in my heart a great light of sun and marvel.
  
In the midst of a night with a murmur of forest      
like the very light noise of a falling star,  
I woke in a dream of trembling golden ears of wheat
beside the nubile body of a sweet brunette,            
as at the edge of a sleeping valley.                     
  
And in the night of leaves and murmuring stars,          
I loved a country, and it is from its dark slime
a scarce portion the bitter heart;
I loved a country that for me is a maiden,  
a deep murmur, an endless flow, a soft tree.  
  
I loved a country and from it I brought a star  
which is a wound in my side, and I brought  
a woman’s scream from within my flesh.             
  
In the balmy night, young and soft night,  
when the high leaves are already light, eternal . . .
  
But if your body is earth from where the shade grows,  
if already in your eyes big stars fall endlessly,  
what shall I find in the valleys that ruffle brief wings?  
what fire shall I look for without days or nights?  

Canción de la noche callada

Canción de la noche callada

  
  
En la noche balsámica, en la noche,  
cuando suben las hojas hasta ser las estrellas,  
oigo crecer las mujeres en la penumbra malva  
y caer de sus párpados la sombra gota a gota.  
  
Oigo engrosar sus brazos en las hondas penumbras  
y podría oir el quebrarse de una espiga en el campo.  
  
Una palabra canta en mi corazón, susurrante  
hoja verde sin fin cayendo. En la noche balsámica,  
cuando la sombra es el crecer desmesurado de los árboles.  
me besa un largo sueño de viajes prodigiosos  
y hay en mi corazón una gran luz de sol y maravilla.  
  
En medio de una noche con rumor de floresta  
como el ruido levísimo del caer de una estrella,  
yo desperté en un sueño de espigas de oro trémulo  
junto del cuerpo núbil de una mujer morena  
y dulce, como a la orilla de un valle dormido.  
  
Y en la noche de hojas y estrellas murmurantes,  
yo amé un país y es de su limo oscuro  
parva porción el corazón acerbo;  
yo amé un país que me es una doncella,  
un rumor hondo, un fluir sin fin, un árbol suave.  
  
Yo amé un país y de él traje una estrella  
que me es herida en el costado, y traje  
un grito de mujer entre mi carne.  
  
En la noche balsámica, noche joven y suave,  
cuando las altas hojas ya son de luz, eternas . . .
  
Mas si tu cuerpo es tierra donde la sombra crece,  
si ya en tus ojos caen sin fin estrellas grandes,  
¿qué encontraré en los valles que rizan alas breves?,  
¿qué lumbre buscaré sin días y sin noches?  
  
Close

Song of the quiet night

In the balmy night, in the night,              
when the leaves rise until they are the stars,      
I hear the women grow in the mauve penumbra
and the falling of the shade from their lids, drop by drop.
  
I hear the broadening of their arms in the penumbra
and I could even hear the breaking of an ear of wheat in the field.     
  
A word sings in my heart, whispering  
green leaf  falling without end. In the balmy night,      
when the shade is the unrestrained growing of the trees,  
a long dream of prodigious journeys kisses me     
and there is in my heart a great light of sun and marvel.
  
In the midst of a night with a murmur of forest      
like the very light noise of a falling star,  
I woke in a dream of trembling golden ears of wheat
beside the nubile body of a sweet brunette,            
as at the edge of a sleeping valley.                     
  
And in the night of leaves and murmuring stars,          
I loved a country, and it is from its dark slime
a scarce portion the bitter heart;
I loved a country that for me is a maiden,  
a deep murmur, an endless flow, a soft tree.  
  
I loved a country and from it I brought a star  
which is a wound in my side, and I brought  
a woman’s scream from within my flesh.             
  
In the balmy night, young and soft night,  
when the high leaves are already light, eternal . . .
  
But if your body is earth from where the shade grows,  
if already in your eyes big stars fall endlessly,  
what shall I find in the valleys that ruffle brief wings?  
what fire shall I look for without days or nights?  

Song of the quiet night

In the balmy night, in the night,              
when the leaves rise until they are the stars,      
I hear the women grow in the mauve penumbra
and the falling of the shade from their lids, drop by drop.
  
I hear the broadening of their arms in the penumbra
and I could even hear the breaking of an ear of wheat in the field.     
  
A word sings in my heart, whispering  
green leaf  falling without end. In the balmy night,      
when the shade is the unrestrained growing of the trees,  
a long dream of prodigious journeys kisses me     
and there is in my heart a great light of sun and marvel.
  
In the midst of a night with a murmur of forest      
like the very light noise of a falling star,  
I woke in a dream of trembling golden ears of wheat
beside the nubile body of a sweet brunette,            
as at the edge of a sleeping valley.                     
  
And in the night of leaves and murmuring stars,          
I loved a country, and it is from its dark slime
a scarce portion the bitter heart;
I loved a country that for me is a maiden,  
a deep murmur, an endless flow, a soft tree.  
  
I loved a country and from it I brought a star  
which is a wound in my side, and I brought  
a woman’s scream from within my flesh.             
  
In the balmy night, young and soft night,  
when the high leaves are already light, eternal . . .
  
But if your body is earth from where the shade grows,  
if already in your eyes big stars fall endlessly,  
what shall I find in the valleys that ruffle brief wings?  
what fire shall I look for without days or nights?  
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