Ultimas palabras a Miriam / D. H. Lawrence

Nuestra es la vergüenza y el dolor
Pero la desgracia es sólo mía;
Tu amor fue oscuro y profundo,
El mío fue como el amor del sol por las flores
Que crea con su brillo.

Yo era diligente para explorarte,
Floreciendo tallo por tallo,
Hasta que el fuego de mi creación te arrojó
Quemando hacia la última frontera de la Angustia,
Entonces fui rechazado.

Conocí tu dolor, y quebró
Mi delicado nervio de artesano;
Tu cuerpo se encogió en mi pulso,
Y mi coraje fracasó al intentar darte
La última y bella tortura que merecías.

Eres esbelta, adornada,
Pero opaca y abatida en la carne,
La cuál, habiéndola penetrado con implacable
Y ardiente angustia, fue consumida
En una adorable y brillante mortaja.

Como una ventana pintada: el refinado
Sufrimiento arde a través de tu carne,
Desnúdala y bendícela con la temblorosa
Dulzura de la sabiduría: porque ahora
¿Quién se llenará de nuevo en tí?

¿A quién consumirás en libertad,
Con la escoria y el terror de tu cuerpo,
Desde que tu fuego ha fracasado en mí?
¿Qué hombre se inclinará sobre tu carne
Para penetrarla con la gimiente cruz?

Una silenciosa, casi una cosa bella es tu rostro,
Que me llena de vergüenza
Al verlo endurecer,
Torciendo la imagen perfecta de Dios,
Y oscureciendo mi eterna fama.


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Yours is the shame and sorrow,
But the disgrace is mine;
Your love was dark and thorough,
Mine was the love of the sun for a flower
He creates with his shine.

I was diligent to explore you,
Blossom you stalk by stalk,
Till my fire of creation bore you
Shrivelling down in the final dour
Anguish — then I suffered a balk.

I knew your pain, and it broke
My fine, craftsman's nerve;
Your body quailed at my stroke,
And my courage failed to give you the last
Fine torture you did deserve.

You are shapely, you are adorned,
But opaque and dull in the flesh,
Who, had I but pierced with the thorned
Fire-threshing anguish, were fused and cast
In a lovely illumined mesh.

Like a painted window: the best
Suffering burnt through your flesh,
Undrossed it and left it blest
With a quivering sweet wisdom of grace: but now
Who shall take you afresh?

Now who will burn you free
From your body's terrors and dross,
Since the fire has failed in me?
What man will stoop in your flesh to plough
The shrieking cross?

A mute, nearly beautiful thing
Is your face, that fills me with shame
As I see it hardening,
Warping the perfect image of God,
And darkening my eternal fame.

Version 2 (1928)
Yours is the sullen sorrow,
The disgrace is also mine;
Your love was intense and thorough,
Mine was the love of a growing flower
For the sunshine.

You had the power to explore me,
Blossom me stalk by stalk;
You woke my spirit, you bore me
To consciousness, you gave me the dour
Awareness — then I suffered a balk.

Body to body I could not
Love you, although I would.
We kissed, we kissed though we should not.
You yielded, we threw the last cast,
And it was no good.

You only endured, and it broke
My craftsman's nerve.
No flesh responded to my stroke;
So I failed to give you the last
Fine torture you did deserve.

You are shapely, you are adorned
But opaque and null in the flesh;
Who, had I but pierced with the thorned
Full anguish, perhaps had been cast
In a lovely illuinined mesh

Like a painted window; the best
Fire passed through your flesh,
Undrossed it, and left it blest
In clean new awareness. But now
Who shall take you afresh?

Now who will burn you free
From your body's deadness and dross?
Since the fire has failed in me,
What man will stoop in your flesh to plough
The shrieking cross?

A mute, nearly beautiful thing
Is your face, that fills me with shame
As I see it hardening;
I should have been cruel enough to bring
You through the flame.

Fuente:

Poemas / D. H. Lawrence; tr. de Mario Satz. 1a ed. Buenos Aires, Argentina: Argonauta, 1990