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Border of a Dream: Selected Poems of Antonio Machado (Spanish Edition)

Page 16

by Antonio Machado


  on the Alvargonzález hearth;

  the older tries to light it

  but the flame sputters out.

  “Father, the fire won’t take,

  the wood is soaking wet.”

  His brother comes to help.

  He scatters chips and branches

  over the logs of oak,

  but the embers die down.

  The youngest comes in.

  Under the black chimney

  in the kitchen, he starts a flame

  lighting the whole house.

  4

  Then Alvargonzález lifts

  his young son in his arms

  and seats him on his knees:

  “Your hands made the fire.

  Though you were born last,

  in my love you are first.”

  The elder sons sneak out

  through the corners of dream.

  Between the two fugitives

  glitters an iron hatchet.

  That Evening

  1

  Over the naked fields

  the full moon looms

  stained with purplish red,

  an enormous globe.

  The sons of Alvargonzález

  are walking silently

  and see their father asleep

  next to the bright spring.

  2

  The father’s face

  is creased by a scowl between

  his eyebrows: a dark gash

  like the imprint of an ax.

  He’s dreaming of his sons,

  that his sons have raised knives,

  and when he wakes he sees

  what he dreamt is right.

  3

  Beside the bright spring

  the father lies dead.

  He has four stab wounds

  between his chest and ribs;

  his blood is pouring out;

  a hatchet blow on his neck.

  The bright running water

  tells the crime of the fields

  while the two murderers flee

  into the beechwood grove.

  They carry the body down

  to Laguna Negra below

  the Duero River. Behind them

  they leave a bloody trail.

  In the bottomless lake

  that surrenders no secrets,

  they tie a stone to his feet,

  bequeathing him a grave.

  4

  The Alvargonzález blanket

  is found next to the spring,

  and on the way to the beeches

  a rivulet of blood is seen.

  No one from the village dares

  to come near the pool,

  and to dredge the lake is futile

  since the lake cannot be dredged.

  A peddler who comes

  wandering through these lands

  is tried in Dauria. The prisoner

  dies by the horrible garrote.

  5

  After a few months

  the mother dies of sorrow.

  Those who find her dead

  say that her stiffened hands

  on her face clawed her face,

  which lay hidden in them.

  6

  The sons of Alvargonzález

  now own the fold and orchard,

  the fields of wheat and rye

  and meadows of fine grass,

  the hives in the old elm

  split by the lightning,

  two ox teams for plowing,

  a mastiff and a thousand sheep.

  Other Days

  1

  Brambles are blossoming

  and cherry trees whiten

  and the gold bees suck

  pollen for their hives,

  and in their nests that crown

  the church towers glow

  the storks’ spindly pothooks.

  The elms along the road

  and the poplars on the banks

  of deep rivers turn green,

  looking for father Duero.

  The firmament is blue,

  the snowless mountains violet.

  The land of Alvargonzález

  overflows with richness.

  He who worked it is dead

  but earth doesn’t cover him.

  2

  Handsome land of Spain,

  parched, fine and warlike

  Castilla, of the long rivers,

  with its fist of sierras

  between Soria and Burgos,

  with fortified ramparts

  like huge helmets festooned

  with Urbión,26 the final crest.

  3

  The sons of Alvargonzález

  are riding dark mules together

  along a steep path up

  under the pines of Vinuesa

  to reach the highway

  from Salduero to Covaleda.

  They’re going to buy cattle

  and drive them to their village

  and through the pine forest

  they begin the day journey.

  They climb above the Duero,

  leaving behind the bridge

  with stone arches and the idle

  opulent house of the migrants.

  The river dreams deep

  in the valley, and their beasts’

  iron shoes batter the rocks.

  On the other bank of the Duero

  a mournful voice is singing:

  “The land of Alvargonzález

  overflows with riches,

  and he who worked the land

  cannot sleep below the earth.”

  4

  Coming upon a spot

  where the pinewood thickens,

  the brother leading the way

  spurs his dark mule, screaming,

  —Goddamit, get going!

  We’ve got miles and miles

  before the night traps us.

  The two sons of these fields

  made of gorges and bitterness

  remember an afternoon,

  and quake in the mountain night.

  In the densest part of the forest

  again they hear the voices:

  “The land of Alvargonzález

  overflows with riches,

  and he who worked the land

  cannot sleep below the earth.”

  5

  The road beyond Salduero

  follows a thread of water.

  On both banks of the river

  the pine trees grow and soar,

  and great rocks loom blurry

  while the low valley narrows.

  Strong pines of the forest

  with gigantic spreading tops

  and tribes of naked roots

  are clinging to the boulders.

  Some of their trunks are silver,

  their needles turning blue:

  the young ones. The old ones

  covered with leprous toadstools,

  moss and gray lichen

  gnaw their heavy bark.

  The valley erased below them

  and nothing on either side,

  luan the elder, says, “Brother,

  if Bias Antonio’s cattle

  are grazing on Urbión,

  we have a long road to go.”

  “When we leave the mountain,

  we can take a shortcut

  by going by Laguna Negra

  and cutting down to the port

  from Santa Inés to Vinuesa.”

  “Bad lands and worse road.

  I swear to you, I don’t want

  to see them again! Let’s do

  our business in Covaleda,

  stay the night, leave at daybreak

  and ride back to the village

  through the valley. Sometimes

  the shortcut is the long way.”

  By the river the brothers ride,

  pondering how the centenary

  forest hugely expands

  with every step they take, />
  how the mountain’s rocky slope

  closes down the horizon,

  and the tumbling waters

  seem to sing or recount:

  “The land of Alvargonzález

  overflows with riches,

  and he who worked the land

  cannot sleep below the earth.”

  Punishment

  1

  Although greed has ready

  a sheepfold for the sheep,

  barns to store the wheat,

  bags to hold the coins,

  it has claws but owns no hands

  skilled in working the soil.

  So a year of abundance

  succumbs to a year of poverty.

  2

  In the seeded fields grow

  poppies soaked with blood.

  The spikes and shoots of wheat

  and oats are a rotting blight

  The late frost kills

  the fruit blossoms in the orchard,

  and an evil curse falls

  on sheep dying of disease.

  God curses the two Alvagonzálezes

  struggling in their lands,

  and a year of poverty

  precedes long years of misery.

  3

  It is a winter evening.

  The snow falls in whirwinds.

  The Alvargonzáleses watch

  a fire which is almost out.

  Both their minds are roped

  to the same recollection

  and their eyes are locked,

  staring at the dying ashes

  in the ancient hearth. They have

  neither firewood nor sleep.

  Night is a long deadening cold.

  A smoking candle flame

  is blackening the wall.

  Wind shakes the flame and blows

  it into a reddish gleam

  around the two brooding heads

  of the murderers.

  The elder Alvargonzález

  emitting a hoarse sigh

  breaks the silence. He exclaims,

  “Brother, we were evil!”

  The wind batters the door,

  shaking it on its hinges,

  and echoing in the chimney

  a long hollow groan.

  Then a return of silence

  and irregularly the wick

  of the candle sputters

  in the hard frozen air.

  The younger says, “Brother,

  let’s forget the old man!”

  The Traveler

  1

  It is a winter evening.

  Wind lashes the branches

  of the poplars, and snow

  settles on the white earth.

  Under the snowfall a man

  is riding on the road;

  he is hooded up to his eyes,

  enveloped in a black cape.

  Entering the village he looks

  for the Alvargonzález house

  and stops before the door,

  without dismounting. He knocks.

  2

  The two brothers hear

  a pounding on the door

  and an animal whose hoofs

  are clapping the stones.

  Both of them raise their eyes

  bloated with terror and surprise.

  “Who is it? Answer!” they shout.

  “Miguel!” A sound from outside;

  it is the voice of the traveler

  who went to distant lands.

  3

  The big gate opens and in

  rides a gentleman on horseback.

  He leaps down, touching earth.

  He is all covered with snow.

  Once in his brothers’ arms,

  he weeps a while in silence.

  Then gives his horse to one,

  to the other his cape and hat,

  and in the peasant mansion

  he looks for comforting fire.

  4

  The youngest of the brothers,

  a boy and adventurer

  who went beyond the seas,

  is home as a rich emigrant.

  He is wearing a black suit

  made of the finest velvet,

  and circling his waist

  a broad belt of leather.

  A heavy watch chain of gold

  is buckled across his chest.

  He is a tall robust man

  whose eyes are large and black

  and filled with melancholy.

  His complexion brownish,

  and over his forehead falls

  a curling tangle of locks.

  He is the son of a royal father

  who was a plain working farmer

  to whom good fortune came

  with love, power and money.

  Of the three Alvargonzáleses

  Miguel is the handsomest.

  The oldest one’s face is spoiled

  with a dominating frown

  below a paltry forehead;

  the second’s disturbed eyes,

  unable to focus straight

  ahead, are ferocious and wild.

  5

  The three brothers contemplate

  the sad home in quietude,

  and as the night closes in

  the cold and wind stiffen.

  “Brothers, don’t you have wood?”

  asks Miguel. “We have nothing,”

  the elder replies.

  A man

  miraculously opens up

  the bulky closed door

  with its double bar of iron.

  The man who comes inside

  wears the dead father’s face.

  A halo of golden light

  caresses his white locks.

  He carries wood on his shoulder

  and grasps an iron hatchet.

  The Returned Emigrant

  1

  Out of those cursed acres,

  Miguel buys a share

  from his brothers. He brings

  abundance from America,

  and even in bad land, gold

  shines better when not buried.

  Better in hands of the poor

  than concealed in a clay jar.

  He starts to work the earth

  with faith and emigrant force

  while the others look after

  their portions of soil and cattle.

  And now the fruitful summer

  decorates Miguel’s fields

  with towering ears of wheat

  pregnant with yellow grain,

  and soon from village to village

  the miracle is recounted,

  and the murderers suffer

  a curse invading their fields.

  Soon the people sing verses

  narrating the earlier crime:

  “By the border of the spring

  they killed him.

  What an evil death they gave him,

  the evil sons!

  In the bottomless pool,

  they threw the dead father,

  and he who worked the land

  cannot sleep below the earth.”

  2

  Miguel with two greyhounds

  and armed with his shotgun,

  goes toward the blue mountains

  on a serene afternoon.

  He is walking amid the green

  poplars along the highway

  and hears a voice singing:

  “He has no grave in the earth.

  Amid the valley pine trees

  of Revinuesa

  they carted their dead father

  out to Laguna Negra.”

  The House

  1

  The house of Alvargonzález

  is an old humble mansion

  with four narrow windows,

  a hundred yards from the village

  set between two elm trees,

  two giant sentinels

  who furnish shade in summer

  and in autumn dry leaves.

&n
bsp; It is a house of farmers,

  of people rich but peasants,

  where the smoking fireplace

  with its seats made of stone

  is easily seen from outside,

  the door open to the fields.

  Set down amid the embers

  in the fireplace are two

  bubbling stewpots of clay

  for nourishing the two families.

  On the right, the yard

  and the corral; on the left,

  the orchard and beehives.

  In the back, a worn staircase

  leading up to the rooms

  divided in sleeping quarters.

  The Alvargonzáleses live

  in them with their women.

  Neither of these couples

  have brought sons into the world

  and so the paternal house

  confers on them ample space.

  In one room with a view

  onto the luminous orchard,

  are a table with thick oak boards

  and two chairs of cowhide.

  Hanging from the wall

  a black abacus with big beads

  and some old rusty spurs

  lying on a wooden chest.

  There is a forgotten room

  where Miguel is living now.

  It was here where his parents

  saw the orchard in spring

  buzzing with flowers, a sky

  in blue May with a stork

  (when roses open up

  and brambles turn white)

  instructing its fledglings

  to use their slow wings to fly.

  And on a summer night

  when heat excluded sleep,

  from the open window they heard

  an invisible nightingale singing.

  There Alvargonzález,

  with pride in his orchards

  and love for his new family,

  had dreams of grandeur.

  He saw the laughing figure

  of his first son in the arms

  of his mother, the face

  radiant under the yellow sun,

  and then the boy’s small greedy

  hands reached for the red

  mazzard berries and the cherries.

  That autumn evening

 

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