Desde los altos racimos de bombillas, esparcida,
la luz cae oscuramente sobre sillas solas
de colores distintos, que se miran una a otra.
Por la puerta abierta, el comedor declara
una más grande soledad de vasos y cuchillos
y una alfombra de silencio. El conserje lee
un diario vespertino que ha sobrado. Pasan horas,
y los viajantes ya se han vuelto a Leeds
dejando ceniceros llenos en la Sala de Reuniones.
Las lámparas alumbran pasillos sin zapatos. Qué
aislado es esto, como una fortaleza...
El papel con membrete, hecho para escribir a casa
(si hubiera casa) cartas del exilio: Cae
la noche. Olas se pliegan detrás de las aldeas.
(De: Ventanas altas,
Lumen, 1989)
Lumen, 1989)
Philip Larkin (Inglaterra, Coventry, 1922-1985)
(Traducción de Marcelo Cohen)
FRIDAY NIGHT IN THE ROYAL STATION HOTEL
Light spreads darkly downwards from the high
Clusters of lights over empty chairs
That face each other, coloured differently.
Through open doors, the dining-room declares
A larger loneliness of knives and glass
And silence laid like carpet. A porter reads
An unsold evening paper. Hours pass,
And all the salesmen have gone back to Leeds,
Leaving full ashtrays in tbe Conference Room.
In shoeless corridors, the lights burn. How
Isolated, like a fort, it is—
The headed paper, made for writing home
(If home existed) letters of exile: Now
Night comes on. Waves fold behind villages.
Through open doors, the dining-room declares
A larger loneliness of knives and glass
And silence laid like carpet. A porter reads
An unsold evening paper. Hours pass,
And all the salesmen have gone back to Leeds,
Leaving full ashtrays in tbe Conference Room.
In shoeless corridors, the lights burn. How
Isolated, like a fort, it is—
The headed paper, made for writing home
(If home existed) letters of exile: Now
Night comes on. Waves fold behind villages.
No hay comentarios:
Publicar un comentario