Once again, and for the second time, I must bore my readers and, I hope, annoy them by pointing out the version of "Un cuchillo en el norte" I posted is a rather literal translation by me. Here (and here's the boring and annoying part) is the Viking translation I referred to above, by Eric McHenry:
A Blade in the Northside
Down there along Maldonado
That today runs blind and hidden,
Down there in the gray barrio
That poor Carriego has sung and written,
Beyond a door that is half open
And looks upon the grapevine arbor,
Where the long evenings listened to
A lone guitar's delighted ardor,
Will be a box, and at the bottom,
With a rough luster that does not fade,
Will sleep, among those things that time
Has learned how to forget, a blade.
It belonged to that Saverio Suárez,
Better known as el Chileno,
Who always proved himself the best
In the election and casino.
The little boys, who are the devil,
Will look for it when they are not watched
And try its metal in the yolk
For places where the edge is notched.
How many times it must have slipped
Into a Christian's mortal breast
And now it lies alone, neglected,
And waiting for a desperate fist,
Which is dust. Behind the glass
That has been lent a golden hue
By a yellow sun, through years and houses,
Blade, I am beholding you.
Believe me, I didn't enjoy this any more than you did.
[This message has been edited by Christopher Mulrooney (edited February 18, 2001).]
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