[Julie Steiner]

"El insecto" by Pablo Neruda (Chile, 1904-1973)


VERSE TRANSLATION:

The Insect

From your hips to your feet
I want to make a long journey.

I am smaller than an insect.

I travel though these hills,
they are the color of oats,
they have delicate traces
known by me alone,
burnt centimeters,
pale perspectives.
Here there is a mountain.
I will never leave it.
Oh what gigantic moss!
And a crater, a rose
of moistened fire!

Through your legs I descend,
threading a spiral,
or sleeping as I travel
to arrive at your
round, hard knees
as if at the peaks
of a shining continent.

Towards your feet I slide,
to the eight slots
of your toes, slow
and peninsular,
and fall from them,
blind and hungry,
to the white sheet,
seeking the edges
of your burning vessel.


SPANISH ORIGINAL:

El insecto

De tus caderas a tus pies
quiero hacer un largo viaje.
Soy más pequeño que un insecto.
Voy por estas colinas,
son de color de avena,
tienen delgadas huellas
que sólo yo conozco,
centímetros quemados,
pálidas perspectivas.
Aquí hay una montaña.
No saldré nunca de ella.
Oh qué musgo gigante!
Y un cráter, una rosa
de fuego humedecido!
Por tus piernas desciendo
hilando una espiral
o durmiendo en el viaje
y llego a tus rodillas
de redonda dureza
como a las cimas duras
de un claro continente.
Hacia tus pies resbalo,
a las ocho aberturas,
de tus dedos agudos,
lentos, peninsulares,
y de ellos al vacío
de la sábana blanca
caigo, buscando ciego
y hambriento tu contorno
de vasija quemante!


ENGLISH PROSE CRIB:

The insect

From your hips to your feet,
I want to make a long trip.

I am smaller than an insect.

I go through these hills,
(they) are the color of oats,
(they) have delicate tracks/footprints/traces
that I alone am acquainted with,
burned centimeters,
pale perspectives.
Here there is a mountain.
I will never leave it.
Oh what giant moss!
And a crater, a rose
of humidified fire.

Through your legs I descend
spinning out a spiral
or sleeping during the trip
and I arrive at your knees
of round hardness
as at the hard summits
of a clear/bright continent.

Towards your feet I slide,
at the eight openings,
of your sharp toes,
slow, peninsular,
and from them to the space
of the white sheet
I fall , blindly seeking
and hungering, your contour/outline/edges/form
of a burning pot/vessel.