But let us turn to this unknown poem. This poetic composition was written on April 22, 1890, and published in issue 453 of El Eco de Daimiel on September 10, 1890. It consists of three parts: an introduction, a serenade, and a farewell.
and in fulfilling it, I take pride,
you wish your brother to draw
from his lyre a gentle song;
and that it cross through the skies,
where the note grows wide and free,
the pure echo of La Mancha
to the Andalusian sea.
the songs of my humble lyre,
for though simple, their tones
have been known to inspire;
what I fear is failing to find
a note worthy and refined
to sing of the sultana
who deigns my song to hear.
beauty with such grace and sense,
you find some sweetness
as my verse you apprehend,
I’ll raise my head with pride,
boastful of my humble deed,
and though small I may feel,
great I’ll be in thought and deed.
of your cherished praise, my goal,
I wish to die in the embrace
of this noble banner’s fold;
and in the strings, now asleep,
of a dusty, broken harp,
let no further note escape
beyond my final song so sharp.
to claim this tender feat,
to occupy your thoughts
for a moment, brief and sweet;
and if I fall, cast down
to oblivion’s deep abyss,
to lie at your feet, surrendered,
is to rise in falling’s kiss.
Sierra Morena’s shadowed veil,
a rustic melody echoes
with a murmur strange and frail;
the Guadalquivir whispers,
with its ripples pure as glass,
the wild serenade
of your shadowed troubadour, alas.
who sings with joy a thousand tunes,
the night’s deep secret I enfold,
a treasure to young maidens bold;
their charm, their talisman I claim,
their joys and sorrows I embrace,
I know them all, I make them mine,
their longing, their heart’s ardent flame.
I moan in waters murmuring low,
I fill the fields with shadowed gleams,
I race in breezes, drunk with dreams,
I weave in the air a thousand themes;
I whistle in reeds, I hum in the wind,
I trill in branches, roar in the seas;
and as warm vapors rise to the skies,
my breath ascends, expands, and flies,
it weaves a mantle of silver and blue,
and settling, forms a cloud so true—
a pearl of heaven, a veil of sun,
an angel’s nest, a cherub’s bloom,
a fount of light, a living flame.
Through me the nightingales sing,
through me the doves softly coo,
through me the fields with flowers spring,
their colors bright, their scents anew;
the sighs, the dreams, the tender gaze
that kindles warmth in every space,
go with the kiss of winds that play,
sleep in the pollen that sparks the day;
through me the hours swiftly glide,
I am your slave, I am love’s tide.
but do not close your balcony yet,
the final chords still linger here
upon the strings I softly set;
you who enslave love’s ardent fire,
don’t pamper it with tender care,
for love’s a child, wild and free,
not meant for coddling’s gentle snare.
of your golden tresses fair,
let it dwell in the radiant gleams
of your eyes, so bright and rare;
but if its intoxicating light
pours joy into your gaze so wide,
keep your soul so tightly sealed
that it cannot feel love’s tide.
and give your soul entire,
that traitor steals your peace away,
its slave you’ll soon aspire;
your sovereign beauty cannot be
a captive to such tender plea…
The sky remains forever high!
A woman’s ever an angel nigh!
and madness in its fiery core,
innocence stands as a shield
against that hellish tempest’s roar;
and woman finds her refuge sweet
in virtue’s shade, a friend so kind,
that cools the burning sting of sin,
the venom love leaves far behind.
Sierra Morena’s shadowed veil,
a rustic melody echoes
with a murmur strange and frail;
the Guadalquivir whispers,
with its ripples pure as glass,
the wild serenade
of your shadowed troubadour, alas.
An enthralling story of love, friendship and honor in the Olympic Games (2,600 years ago)
No comments:
Post a Comment