JOSÉ ASUNCIÓN SILVA

                For Enrique Santos Molano



For more than a hundred years
you have been a victim
of us your friends
of our fantasies and prejudices
of our complexes and needs
Fellow citizens intellectuals admirers functionaries
we have dragged you along with our deficiencies
speeches and nonsense

We transformed you
– a man of flesh and blood –
into a caricature in our own
image and likeness    poor
and haughty
Your contemporaries
wounded you     – in your absence –
with barbed darts of gold and red sobriquets
You were admired for what you never were
Your were punished   – already dead –
by ascribing a history to you
that was never yours.

We accused you of squandering
a fortune that you never had
                    of being a dandy
                    a casanova
                    incestuous
                    in love with death
                    a queer fellow
                    exotic
                    unfit for life
                    . . .
Weaknesses and defects
that are secret vengeances
Over a hundred years
we have struggled so that at the end you resemble
us    – the owners of your ashes
Your integrity
irritates and shames us
Your dignity
offends
those who have preferred
other ways
Your discreet greatness
is a treasure
that adorns the occult ambitions
of us your heirs

We turned your history
into a black    and sentimental    history

We ridiculed you
so that we did not have to strive too much
to squander fortunes and virtues    – belonging to others
so that people will not see that we are dead
We applauded you we rejected you
we jeered at you we praised you
we extolled you we defeated you
we made you kill yourself . . .
hypocritical and satisfied

What music afflicted your soul
what truths did you sense
what high star
      burnt your blood
in order to transform you into such an enemy?

We would have to burn
as you did in your life – which is only one life
to know about it.

José Asunción Silva

José Asunción Silva

                Para Enrique Santos Molano



Durante más de cien años
has sido víctima
de nosotros tus amigos,
de nuestras fantasías y prejuicios
de nuestros complejos y necesidades
Conciudadanos intelectuales admiradores funcionarios
te hemos arrastrado por entre nuestras carencias
discursos y necedades

Hicimos de ti
– un hombre de carne y hueso –
una caricatura a nuestra
imagen y semejanza     – pobre
y soberbia –
Tus contemporáneos
te herían     – en tu ausencia –
con banderillas de oro y apodos rojos
Se te admiró por lo que nunca fuiste
Se te castigó     – ya muerto –
dándote una historia
que no fue la tuya

Te acusamos de dilapidar
una fortuna que nunca tuviste
                    de dandy
                    de donjuán
                    de incestuoso
                    de enamorado de la muerte
                    de raro
                    de exótico
                    de inepto para la vida
                    . . .
Debilidades y defectos
que son secretas venganzas
A lo largo de cien años
hemos luchado para que al fin te parezcas
a nosotros     – dueños de tus cenizas
Tu integridad
nos irrita y avergüenza
Tu dignidad
ofende
a quienes han preferido
otros caminos
Tu discreta grandeza
es un tesoro
que adorna ocultas ambiciones
de nosotros tus herederos

Hicimos de tu historia
una historia negra     y rosa

Te ridiculizamos
para no tener que esforzarnos demasiado
para derrochar fortunas y virtudes     – ajenas
para que no vean que estamos muertos
Te aplaudimos te rechazamos
te abucheamos te celebramos
te elogiamos te derrotamos
te suicidamos . . .
hipócritas y satisfechos

¿Qué música afligía tu alma
qué verdades intuías
qué alta estrella
          quemaba tu sangre
para que hiciéramos de ti tal enemigo?

Tendríamos que arder
en tu vida     – que es sólo una vida
para saberlo