博尔赫斯（BORGES）：里科莱塔 （THE RECOLETA）

LA RECOLETA

Convencidos de caducidad

por tantas nobles certidumbres del polvo,

nos demoramos y bajamos la voz

entre las lentas filas de panteones,

cuya retórica de sombra y de mármol

promete o prefigura la deseable

dignidad de haber muerto.

Bellos son los sepulcros,

el desnudo latín y las trabadas fechas fatales,

la conjunción del mármol y de la flor

y las plazuelas con frescura de patio

y los muchos ayeres de la historia

hoy detenida y única.

Equivocamos esa paz con la muerte

y creemos anhelar nuestro fin

y anhelamos el sueño y la indiferencia.

Vibrante en las espadas y en la pasión

y dormida en la hiedra,

sólo la vida existe.

El espacio y el tiempo son formas suyas,

son instrumentos mágicos del alma,

y cuando ésta se apague,

se apagarán con ella el espacio, el tiempo y la muerte,

como al cesar la luz

caduca el simulacro de los espejos

que ya la tarde fue apagando.

Sombra benigna de los árboles,

viento con pájaros que sobre las ramas ondea,

alma que se dispersa en otras almas,

fuera un milagro que alguna vez dejaran de ser,

milagro incomprensible,

Convinced of our mortality

by so many confirmations of final dust,

we drop our voices, our steps grow slow

between the slow rows of family crypts,

whose rhetoric of shadow and stone

promises or prefigures the coveted

dignity of being dead.

There is beauty in the tombs,

the spare Latin and link of fatal dates,

the conjunction of marble and flowers,

the broad intersections, as cool as patios,

and all our yesterdays of a history

now stilled and unique.

We mistake this peace for death,

believing we yearn for our end

when we yearn for sleep and oblivion.

Vibrant in swords and in passion,

asleep in ivy,

only life is real.

Space and time are its shapes,

the mind’s magical modes,

and when life burns out,

space, time, and death go out with it,

as when light fails

the image in the mirror fails,

already grown dim in the dusk.

Kindly shade of the trees,

breeze rich with birds rocking the branches,

my soul losing itself in other souls—

only a wonder could undo their existence,

a wonder not to be understood,

aunque su imaginaria repetición

infame con horror nuestros días.

Estas cosas pensé en la Recoleta,

en el lugar de mi ceniza.

THE RECOLETA

Convinced of our mortality

by so many confirmations of final dust,

we drop our voices, our steps grow slow

between the slow rows of family crypts,

whose rhetoric of shadow and stone

promises or prefigures the coveted

dignity of being dead.

There is beauty in the tombs,

the spare Latin and link of fatal dates,

the conjunction of marble and flowers,

the broad intersections, as cool as patios,

and all our yesterdays of a history

now stilled and unique.

We mistake this peace for death,

believing we yearn for our end

when we yearn for sleep and oblivion.

Vibrant in swords and in passion,

asleep in ivy,

only life is real.

Space and time are its shapes,

the mind’s magical modes,

and when life burns out,

space, time, and death go out with it,

as when light fails

the image in the mirror fails,

already grown dim in the dusk.

Kindly shade of the trees,

breeze rich with birds rocking the branches,

my soul losing itself in other souls—

only a wonder could undo their existence,

a wonder not to be understood,

however much its imagined recurrence

however much its imagined recurrence

taints our days with dread.

These thoughts came to me in the Recoleta,

in the place where my ashes will He.

[tr Norman Thomas di Giovanni]

里科莱塔

这么多昂贵的证据，尘土

使我们相信难免一死，

我们放慢脚步，压低嗓音

走过一列列缓慢的墓碑

它们阴影与大理石的修辞学

允诺或预示了那倍受向往的

成为死者的光荣。

苍苍的坟墓是美的，

贫乏的拉丁语和末日的锁环，

大理石与花朵的会合点，

凉爽如庭院的空地

和历史的数不清的昨天

如今是凝滞的，惟一的。

我们将这宁静混同于死亡

并且相信我们渴望结束自己

尽管只是渴望睡梦与冷漠。

在刀与激情中震颤，

在常春藤中沉睡，

惟有生命存在，

空间与时间是它的轮廓，

是心灵的魔法的工具，

而当生命熄灭，

空间，时间，死亡随之而去，

就像光明终止

镜中的幻影也就消逝

它早已在黄昏黯然失色。

树木温柔的阴影，

载送飞鸟，摇荡枝条的微风，

迷失于别的灵魂的灵魂，

有时候它们停止存在就是一个奇迹，

不可思议的奇迹，

尽管它臆想中的再生

以恐怖玷污了我们的日子。

我在里科莱塔把这一切沉思，

在我的灰烬安放的地方。

[tr 陈东飚]

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