Grad bez sna - Ciudaad sin sueno - City That Does Not Sleep

( Nokturno Brooklyn Bridgea )

Ne spava nitko na nebu. Nitko, nitko.
Ne spava nitko.
Stvorovi mjeseca njuse i kruze oko koliba.
Doci ce iguani zivi da grizu ljude sto ne sanjaju
i onaj sto bjezi srca razbijena srest ce na uglovima
nevjerojatnog krokodila mirnoga pod njeznim protestom zvijezda.

Ne spava nitko na svijetu. Nitko, nitko.
Ne spava nitko.
Ima jedan mrtvi na udaljenom groblju
sto tri godine tuguje
zbog suhog pejsaza u koljenu;
i dijete koje su pokopali jutros toliko da je plakalo
da je trebalo pozvati pse da ga zamuknu.

Nije zivot san. Bdijte! Bdijte! Bdijte!
Mi padamo po stubama da bi jeli vlaznu zemlju
ili se penjemo rubom snijega s korom mrtvih dalija.
Ali nema sna ni zaborava:
meso zivo. Poljupci vezu usta
u siprazje novih vena
i onaj sto trpi, trpjet ce bez prestanka
i tko se smrti boji nosit ce je na plecima.

Jednoga dana
zivjet ce konji po krcmama
a pobjesnjeli ce mravi napasti zuta nebesa
skrivena u ocima krava.

Drugoga dana vidjet cemo uskrsnuce osusenih leptira
i setajuci krajem spuzava sivih i sutljivih camaca
vidjet cemo kako blista nas prsten
i kako teku ruze naseg jezika.

Bdijte! Bdijte! Bdijte!
One koji jos cuvaju tragove pandze i pljuska,
onog djecaka sto place jer nezna invenciju mosta
i onog mrtvaca sto ima jos samo glavu i cipele,
do zida treba odnijeti gdje iguani i zmije cekaju,
gdje ceka medvjedje zubalo,
gdje ceka mumificirana ruka djeteta
i devina koza sto se opire silovitom jezurom plavila.

Ne spava nitko na nebu. Nitko, nitko.
Ne spava nitko.
Ali ako netko zatvori oci,
bicujte ga, sinovi moji, bicujte!
Neka bude prizor otvorenih ociju
i gorkih rana upaljenih.

Ne spava nitko na nebu. Nitko, nitko.
Vec sam rekao.
Ne spava nitko.
Ali ako netko ima nocu odvise mahovine na sljepoocnicama
otvorite kapke da vidi pod mjesecom
lazne karte, otrov i mrtvacku glavu kazalista.

( Nocturno del Brooklyn Bridge )

No duerme nadie por el cielo. Nadie, nadie.
No duerme nadie.
Las criaturas de la luna huelen y rondan sus cabańas.
Vendrán las iguanas vivas a morder a los hombres que no sueńan
y el que huye con el corazón roto encontrará por las esquinas
al increíble cocodrilo quieto bajo la tierna protesta de los astros...

No duerme nadie por el mundo. Nadie, nadie.
No duerme nadie.
Hay un muerto en el cementerio más lejano
que se queja tres ańos
porque tiene un paisaje seco en la rodilla;
y el nińo que enterraron esta mańana lloraba tanto
que hubo necesidad de llamar a los perros para que callase.

No es sueńo la vida. ˇAlerta! ˇAlerta! ˇAlerta!
Nos caemos por las escaleras para comer la tierra húmeda
o subimos al filo de la nieve con el coro de las dalias muertas.
Pero no hay olvido, ni sueńo
carne viva. Los besos atan las bocas
en una marańa de venas recientes
y al que le duele su dolor le dolerá sin descanso
y al que teme la muerte la llevará sobre sus hombros.

Un día
los caballos vivirán en las tabernas
y las hormigas furiosas
atacarán los cielos amarillos que se refugian en los ojos de las vacas.

Otro día
veremos la resurrección de las mariposas disecadas
y aún andando por un paisaje de esponjas grises y barcos mudos
veremos brillar nuestro anillo y manar rosas de nuestra lengua.
ˇAlerta! ˇAlerta! ˇAlerta!
A los que guardan todavía huellas de zarpa y aguacero
A aquel muchacho que llora porque no sabe la invención del puente
o a aquel muerto que ya no tiene más que la cabeza y un zapato,
hay que llevarlos al muro donde iguanas y sierpes esperan,
donde espera la dentadura del oso,
donde espera la ˇmano momificada del nińo
y, la piel del camello se eriza con un violento escalofrío azul.

No duerme nadie por el cielo. Nadie, nadie.
No duerme nadie.
Pero si alguien cierra los ojos,
ˇazotadlo, hijos míos, azotadlo!

Haya un panorama de ojos abiertos
y amargas llagas encendidas.
No duerme nadie por el mundo. Nadie, nadie.
Ya lo he dicho.
No duerme nadie.
Pero si alguien tiene por la noche exceso de musgo en las sienes,
abrid los escotillones para que vea bajo la luna
las copas falsas, el veneno y la calavera de los teatros.

In the sky there is nobody asleep. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is asleep.
The creatures of the moon sniff and prowl about their cabins.
The living iguanas will come and bite the men who do not dream,
and the man who rushes out with his spirit broken will meet on the street corner
the unbelievable alligator quiet beneath the tender protest of the stars.

Nobody is asleep on earth. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is asleep.
In a graveyard far off there is a corpse
who has moaned for three years
because of a dry countryside on his knee;
and that boy they buried this morning cried so much
it was necessary to call out the dogs to keep him quiet.

Life is not a dream. Careful! Careful! Careful!
We fall down the stairs in order to eat the moist earth
or we climb to the knife edge of the snow with the voices of the dead dahlias.
But forgetfulness does not exist, dreams do not exist;
flesh exists. Kisses tie our mouths
in a thicket of new veins,
and whoever his pain pains will feel that pain forever
and whoever is afraid of death will carry it on his shoulders.

One day
the horses will live in the saloons
and the enraged ants
will throw themselves on the yellow skies that take refuge in the eyes of cows.

Another day
we will watch the preserved butterflies rise from the dead
and still walking through a country of gray sponges and silent boats
we will watch our ring flash and roses spring from our tongue.
Careful! Be careful! Be careful!
The men who still have marks of the claw and the thunderstorm,
and that boy who cries because he has never heard of the invention of the bridge,
or that dead man who possesses now only his head and a shoe,
we must carry them to the wall where the iguanas and the snakes are waiting,
where the bear's teeth are waiting,
where the mummified hand of the boy is waiting,
and the hair of the camel stands on end with a violent blue shudder.

Nobody is sleeping in the sky. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is sleeping.
If someone does close his eyes,
a whip, boys, a whip!
Let there be a landscape of open eyes
and bitter wounds on fire.
No one is sleeping in this world. No one, no one.
I have said it before.

No one is sleeping.
But if someone grows too much moss on his temples during the night,
open the stage trapdoors so he can see in the moonlight
the lying goblets, and the poison, and the skull of the theaters.

Grad bez sna — Ciudaad sin sueńo — City That Does Not Sleep

Frederico Garcia Lorca

(1898 - 1936)

[ Spanjolska - Spain - Espańa ]

slika - art: William Blake: Whirlwind of Lovers

(1757-1827) ( Illustration to Dante's Inferno )

poet, artist, engraver

translated by Robert Bly

(1926)

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