Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

José Asunción Silva

DUSK

The lamp that stands beside the crib
Is not yet lighted to warm the gloom
Of the blueish, opaque light falling
Through the curtains of late afternoon.

From outside come unfamiliar sounds
And weary children interrupt their play
While in every corner of the house
Fairies awaken at the end of day.

Shadows gathering among the drapes
Rustle and murmur to childish ears,
And from the pages of their storybooks
Come all their favorite characters.

First, industrious Rin Rin Renacuajo,
And Mouse Pérez, scurrying to survive,
Then, casting even deeper shadows,
Blue Beard, who killed his seven wives.

Given life in darkest corners,
Somewhere in a distant wood
Puss-in-Boots strides through the meadows
And the Wolf stalks Little Red Ridinghood.

In a deep dark forest echoing
With chilling howls, the handsome Prince,
On his white charger, rides toward
Sleeping Beauty, who awaits his kiss.

The children’s voices, silver and pure,
Form a chorus that speaks as one:
“Then they went to the ball and left
Poor Cinderella all alone.

“She wiped away her flowing tears
And scrubbed the kitchen pots and bowls
Watching the dance leaping among
Somber shadows and glowing coals.

“But her fairy godmother soon appeared
With a beauteous gown and, in a thrice,
From a pumpkin produced a golden coach
With prancing steeds, once six white mice.

“She gave Cinderella a lush bouquet
And a glass slipper she quickly donned,
She turned ashes to flashing jewels
With one wave of her magic wand.”

Abandoned dolls tossed on the carpet,
The listening girls sit in thrall,
The light grows pale and dark creeps in
As lowering evening shadows fall.

Wondrous stories of fairies and sprites
Are alive with ideas and fantasies,
They open to childish imaginations
A whole world of possibilities!

Stories born of times long gone,
Wing through the dark of ages,
From powerful, early Aryan tribes
To diminished future races.

These stories are told by nannies
When children can’t get to sleep,
The essence of poetic dream
Is the mystery they keep.

These stories have proved more lasting
Than tomes of the philosophers
And with every generation
Have entertained our ancestors.

O tales of elves and ghosts and fairies
That people the dreams all children have,
Time buries you forever in our soul
And man evokes you with his love.

CREPUSCULO

CREPUSCULO

Junto a la cuna aún no está encendida
La lámpara tibia que alegra y reposa,
Y se filtra opaca, por entre cortinas
De la tarde triste la luz azuloza.

Los niños cansados suspenden los juegos,
De la calle vienen extraños ruïdos,
En estos momentos, en todos los cuartos,
Se van despertando los duendes dormidos.

La sombra que sube por los cortinajes,
Para los hermosos oyentes pueriles,
Se puebla y se llena con los personajes
De los tenebrosos cuentos infantiles.

Flota en ella el pobre Rin Rin Renacuajo,
Corre y huye triste el Ratoncito Pérez,
Y lo entenebrece la forma del trágico
Barba Azul, que mata a sus siete mujeres.

En unas distancias enormes e ignotas,
Que por los rincones oscuros suscita,
Andan por los prados el Gato con Botas,
Y el lobo que marcha con Caperucita.

Y, ágil caballero, cruzando la selva,
Do vibra el ladrido fúnebre de un gozque,
A escape tendido va el Príncipe Rubio
A ver a la Hermosa Durmiente del Bosque.

Del infantil grupo se levantó leve,
Argentada y pura una vocecilla,
Que comienza: “Entonces se fueron al baile
Y dejaron sola a la Cenicentilla!

“Se quedó la pobre triste en la cocina,
De llanto, de pena nublados los ojos,
Mirando los juegos extraños que hacían
En las sombras negras los carbones rojos.

“Pero vino el Hada que era su madrina,
Le trajo un vestido de encaje y crespones,
Le hizo un coche de oro de una calabaza,
Convirtió en caballos unos seis ratones,

“Le dio un ramo enorme de magnolias húmedas,
Unos zapaticos de vidrio, brillantes,
Y de un solo golpe de la vara mágica
Las cenizas grises convirtió en diamantes!”

Con atento oído las niñas la escuchan,
Las muñecas duermen, en la blanda alfombra
Medio abandonadas, y en el aposento
La luz disminuye, se aumenta la sombra”.

¡Fantásticos cuentos de duendes y hadas,
Llenos de paisajes y de sugestiones,
Que abrís a lo lejos, amplias perspectivas,
A las infantiles imaginaciones!

Cuentos que nacisteis en ignotos tiempos,
Y que vais, volando, por entre lo oscuro,
Desde los potentes Aryas primitivos
Hasta las enclenques razas del futuro.

Cuentos que repiten sencillas nodrizas
Muy paso, a los niños, cuando no se duermen,
Y que en sí atesoran del sueño poético
El íntimo encanto, la esencia y el germen.

Cuentos más durables que las convicciones
De graves filósofos y sabias escuelas,
Y que rodeasteis con vuestras ficciones
Las cunas doradas de las bisabuelas.

¡Fantásticos cuentos de duendes y hadas
Que pobláis los sueños confusos del niño,
El tiempo os sepulta por siempre en el alma
Y el hombre os evoca con hondo cariño!
Close

DUSK

The lamp that stands beside the crib
Is not yet lighted to warm the gloom
Of the blueish, opaque light falling
Through the curtains of late afternoon.

From outside come unfamiliar sounds
And weary children interrupt their play
While in every corner of the house
Fairies awaken at the end of day.

Shadows gathering among the drapes
Rustle and murmur to childish ears,
And from the pages of their storybooks
Come all their favorite characters.

First, industrious Rin Rin Renacuajo,
And Mouse Pérez, scurrying to survive,
Then, casting even deeper shadows,
Blue Beard, who killed his seven wives.

Given life in darkest corners,
Somewhere in a distant wood
Puss-in-Boots strides through the meadows
And the Wolf stalks Little Red Ridinghood.

In a deep dark forest echoing
With chilling howls, the handsome Prince,
On his white charger, rides toward
Sleeping Beauty, who awaits his kiss.

The children’s voices, silver and pure,
Form a chorus that speaks as one:
“Then they went to the ball and left
Poor Cinderella all alone.

“She wiped away her flowing tears
And scrubbed the kitchen pots and bowls
Watching the dance leaping among
Somber shadows and glowing coals.

“But her fairy godmother soon appeared
With a beauteous gown and, in a thrice,
From a pumpkin produced a golden coach
With prancing steeds, once six white mice.

“She gave Cinderella a lush bouquet
And a glass slipper she quickly donned,
She turned ashes to flashing jewels
With one wave of her magic wand.”

Abandoned dolls tossed on the carpet,
The listening girls sit in thrall,
The light grows pale and dark creeps in
As lowering evening shadows fall.

Wondrous stories of fairies and sprites
Are alive with ideas and fantasies,
They open to childish imaginations
A whole world of possibilities!

Stories born of times long gone,
Wing through the dark of ages,
From powerful, early Aryan tribes
To diminished future races.

These stories are told by nannies
When children can’t get to sleep,
The essence of poetic dream
Is the mystery they keep.

These stories have proved more lasting
Than tomes of the philosophers
And with every generation
Have entertained our ancestors.

O tales of elves and ghosts and fairies
That people the dreams all children have,
Time buries you forever in our soul
And man evokes you with his love.

DUSK

The lamp that stands beside the crib
Is not yet lighted to warm the gloom
Of the blueish, opaque light falling
Through the curtains of late afternoon.

From outside come unfamiliar sounds
And weary children interrupt their play
While in every corner of the house
Fairies awaken at the end of day.

Shadows gathering among the drapes
Rustle and murmur to childish ears,
And from the pages of their storybooks
Come all their favorite characters.

First, industrious Rin Rin Renacuajo,
And Mouse Pérez, scurrying to survive,
Then, casting even deeper shadows,
Blue Beard, who killed his seven wives.

Given life in darkest corners,
Somewhere in a distant wood
Puss-in-Boots strides through the meadows
And the Wolf stalks Little Red Ridinghood.

In a deep dark forest echoing
With chilling howls, the handsome Prince,
On his white charger, rides toward
Sleeping Beauty, who awaits his kiss.

The children’s voices, silver and pure,
Form a chorus that speaks as one:
“Then they went to the ball and left
Poor Cinderella all alone.

“She wiped away her flowing tears
And scrubbed the kitchen pots and bowls
Watching the dance leaping among
Somber shadows and glowing coals.

“But her fairy godmother soon appeared
With a beauteous gown and, in a thrice,
From a pumpkin produced a golden coach
With prancing steeds, once six white mice.

“She gave Cinderella a lush bouquet
And a glass slipper she quickly donned,
She turned ashes to flashing jewels
With one wave of her magic wand.”

Abandoned dolls tossed on the carpet,
The listening girls sit in thrall,
The light grows pale and dark creeps in
As lowering evening shadows fall.

Wondrous stories of fairies and sprites
Are alive with ideas and fantasies,
They open to childish imaginations
A whole world of possibilities!

Stories born of times long gone,
Wing through the dark of ages,
From powerful, early Aryan tribes
To diminished future races.

These stories are told by nannies
When children can’t get to sleep,
The essence of poetic dream
Is the mystery they keep.

These stories have proved more lasting
Than tomes of the philosophers
And with every generation
Have entertained our ancestors.

O tales of elves and ghosts and fairies
That people the dreams all children have,
Time buries you forever in our soul
And man evokes you with his love.
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