Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Fernando Charry Lara

SOLITARY NIGHT

There sometimes roams about at night a muffled murmur of woods
And of swift, turning shadows and tired winds.
Where can I listen, can I to listen to you, delirious sheaf of dreams
But in this silent, deep darkness of the night?

The dust of dried leaves and murmurs roams the woods, old roads,
And a song, a wailing light that descends to the lips,
Crossing with strange sounds and fears this dream of stone
Of sleeping shapes. A rough wind and in the wind the song.

The sound of insistent shadow grows, grows.
A breeze, a leaf resounds in the soul with an extended echo,
And a remembrance appears amongst a thousand names, like an
    approach
Of butterflies in the hours that come from the distance to the night.

This is the night, gentle woman from whom we’d wish to recover
An ancient love, a caress, a mysterious and ardent desire.
Like a woman it should lie down eternally at one’s side,
And from her body would come nocturnal perfumes, lunar aromas.

There is something above the earth: oblivion and hopes, life,
And a dream grows from what is lost, from the remote childhood,
Advancing beautifully and slowly, with a sick woman’s step,
Indistinct voices gush, and words, smoke profiles in the memory.

There is something over the earth: life, hopes and oblivion.
Through the night a deep, muffled murmur of woods
That comes to the deserted heart with hidden places
Of nocturnal wood, old branches, unknown or sinister birds.

Afterwards all is silent. The night, near the sea
Will not leave, against the rocks, the shore, its dramatic accent
Of overflowing waters beating white and sleepy foam.
But far away, in cities without shores, a tremulous silence endlessly burns.

Noche desierta

Noche desierta

Ronda en la noche a veces un sordo rumor de bosques
Y de raudas sombras girantes y vientos fatigados.
¿Dónde oír, dónde oírte, delirante gavilla de sueños
Sino en esta silenciosa, honda penumbra de la noche?

Rondan bosques, polvo de secas hojas y rumores, viejos caminos,
Y una canción, clamante luz que descendió a los labios,
Cruza de sones extraños  temores este sueño de piedra
De las formas dormidas. Un rudo viento y en el viento la canción.

Crece, crece el sonido de la sombra insistente.
Una brisa, una hoja resuenan en el alma con extendido eco,
Y aparece un recuerdo entre mil nombres, tal un aproximar
De mariposas en las horas que llegan de las distancias a la noche.

Esta es la noche, dócil mujer de quien quisiéramos rescatar
Un amor antiguo, una caricia, un deseo misterioso y ardiente.
Como mujer debiera tenderse eternamente al lado
Y serían de su cuerpo los perfumes nocturnos, los aromas lunares.

Algo hay sobre la tierra: olvido y esperanzas, la vida,
Un sueño crece de lo perdido, de la infancia remota
Que avanza bella y lentamente, como con paso de mujer enferma,
Brotando vagas voces, palabras y siluetas de humo en la memoria.

Algo hay sobre la tierra: la vida, esperanzas y olvido.
Sobre la noche un hondo, sordo rumor de bosques
Que llega al corazón desierto con parajes recónditos
De maderas nocturnas, viejas ramas, aves desconocidas o siniestras.

Después todo es silencio. La noche, cerca del mar,
No dejará, contra las rocas, contra la playa, su dramático acento
De desbordantes aguas batir espuma blanca y soñolienta.
Pero lejos, entre ciudades sin orillas, un trémulo silencio arde sin fin.
Close

SOLITARY NIGHT

There sometimes roams about at night a muffled murmur of woods
And of swift, turning shadows and tired winds.
Where can I listen, can I to listen to you, delirious sheaf of dreams
But in this silent, deep darkness of the night?

The dust of dried leaves and murmurs roams the woods, old roads,
And a song, a wailing light that descends to the lips,
Crossing with strange sounds and fears this dream of stone
Of sleeping shapes. A rough wind and in the wind the song.

The sound of insistent shadow grows, grows.
A breeze, a leaf resounds in the soul with an extended echo,
And a remembrance appears amongst a thousand names, like an
    approach
Of butterflies in the hours that come from the distance to the night.

This is the night, gentle woman from whom we’d wish to recover
An ancient love, a caress, a mysterious and ardent desire.
Like a woman it should lie down eternally at one’s side,
And from her body would come nocturnal perfumes, lunar aromas.

There is something above the earth: oblivion and hopes, life,
And a dream grows from what is lost, from the remote childhood,
Advancing beautifully and slowly, with a sick woman’s step,
Indistinct voices gush, and words, smoke profiles in the memory.

There is something over the earth: life, hopes and oblivion.
Through the night a deep, muffled murmur of woods
That comes to the deserted heart with hidden places
Of nocturnal wood, old branches, unknown or sinister birds.

Afterwards all is silent. The night, near the sea
Will not leave, against the rocks, the shore, its dramatic accent
Of overflowing waters beating white and sleepy foam.
But far away, in cities without shores, a tremulous silence endlessly burns.

SOLITARY NIGHT

There sometimes roams about at night a muffled murmur of woods
And of swift, turning shadows and tired winds.
Where can I listen, can I to listen to you, delirious sheaf of dreams
But in this silent, deep darkness of the night?

The dust of dried leaves and murmurs roams the woods, old roads,
And a song, a wailing light that descends to the lips,
Crossing with strange sounds and fears this dream of stone
Of sleeping shapes. A rough wind and in the wind the song.

The sound of insistent shadow grows, grows.
A breeze, a leaf resounds in the soul with an extended echo,
And a remembrance appears amongst a thousand names, like an
    approach
Of butterflies in the hours that come from the distance to the night.

This is the night, gentle woman from whom we’d wish to recover
An ancient love, a caress, a mysterious and ardent desire.
Like a woman it should lie down eternally at one’s side,
And from her body would come nocturnal perfumes, lunar aromas.

There is something above the earth: oblivion and hopes, life,
And a dream grows from what is lost, from the remote childhood,
Advancing beautifully and slowly, with a sick woman’s step,
Indistinct voices gush, and words, smoke profiles in the memory.

There is something over the earth: life, hopes and oblivion.
Through the night a deep, muffled murmur of woods
That comes to the deserted heart with hidden places
Of nocturnal wood, old branches, unknown or sinister birds.

Afterwards all is silent. The night, near the sea
Will not leave, against the rocks, the shore, its dramatic accent
Of overflowing waters beating white and sleepy foam.
But far away, in cities without shores, a tremulous silence endlessly burns.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère