In the Guarani language
a young Paraguayan girl
a sweet lament rehearses,
singing, on her harp, like this,
in the Guarani language:

“Cry, cry, urutaú,
on the branches of the yatay;
Paraguay is no more,
where I was born, the same as you!
Cry, cry, urutaú!

In the sweet city of Lambaré,
happy, I lived in my cabin;
then comes war, and all its rage
leaves nothing standing
in the sweet city of Lambaré.

Father, mother, siblings, Ay!
All in the world, I have lost;
in my broken heart
only a savage sorrow;
mother, father, siblings, Ay!

Beside a green ubirapitá tree,
my love, who fought
heroically in the Timbó,
is now buried there,
beside a green ubirapitá tree.

Ripping my white tipoy skirt
I wear as sign of grief,
upon that holy ground
upon it, forever on my knees,
ripping my white tipoy skirt!

They killed him, the cambá people,
powerless to make him kneel;
he was the last to leave
from Curuzú and Humaitá;
they killed him, the cambá people.

Oh heavens, why did I not die
when, triumphant, my love embraced me,
returned from Curupaití?
Oh heavens, why, did I not die?

Cry, cry, urutaú,
on the branches of the yatay;
Paraguay is no more,
where I was born, the same as you!
Cry, cry, urutaú!”

 

At the game which is my life
I play with such sloth
that I shall lose the game
for not moving a pawn.

I should get up? I should go
to seek the Golden Fleece?
There is no Fleece that is worth
the weariness of the road.

 

You are so forgetful! Yesterday you left behind
here, over the piano that you no longer play,
a bit of your ailing girl soul:
a book, forbidden, of tender memories.

Intimate memories. I opened it, carelessly,
And knew, smiling, your deepest woe,
The sweet secret that I will not tell:
That you mention me no one wants to know.

…Come, take the book, you faraway, full
of light and daydreams. Crazy romantic…
Leaving all your loves here, over the piano!…
You are so forgetful, absent-minded!

Translation by Facundo Rodriguez

 

My cousins, on Sundays, come to cut roses
and to ask me for some book of verses in French.

They move about the garden lawn, cutting flowers,
straight from the pages of Musset or Samain.

They love pretty phrases and clear bright mornings.

An imperturbable statue can thrill them through and through.
They are waitmg for the coming of the autumn evenings
because through the window-panes everything looks gold…

And they come to cut roses on Sundays… They know
that the echo of their voices is pleasing to me.

Among the petals they leave their harmonious laughter;
surely they are laughing unaware.

My cousins, when it rains, do not come. Sweedy
I bring away whatever buds the wind has blown down;

I make a bouquet with them, and place beneath the bouquet
a volume of poems by Musset or Samain.

We present this work in honor of the 25th anniversary of the poet’s death.

 

Thank you
for showing me this woman’s body
while the branches, you remember, shook the roof
and I went after the mystery.

And it was a great scare that
in the Casa della Pazzia
from where we came out terrified by so much nothingness;
to the open air, to the pure images;
nourishment for the mind of those who want a new world
and the feeling that shines
and the body relieved.

Because when you take my hand I take fire
but your smile is this light
and I wait in peace for the dark to bite me
with its mouth of fury
so that once and for all those on the shore
they can hear the scream.

Translation by Calendaria Romero and Rocio Bolanos

We present this work in honor of the 85th anniversary of the poet’s death.

 

Your slow desolation, you coal
of delirium, puts my soul
into mourning. Yet a phrase
of black notes transforms my sigh
into a heavenly butterfly.

The taste of fresh rose petals
intoxicates my arid tongue,
and moistens my song unsung:
my naïve happiness in the loss above
only to find the lips of my love.

Themes of love, my humble flute
will sing in praise.
I am pale yet happy all my days,
and in the evening, as the piragua sails,
marking the water with childlike nails,
my sweetheart will sing the same salute.

Translation by John H. Reid

We present this work in honor of the 55th anniversary of the poet’s death.

 

How many poems of love, sung in vain!
Oh, how old becomes my soul
when I recall the ancient
absurd story of yesterday.

How many poems of love, moaned in vain!
First you were a flower, I, the Bee.
Then my heart found in your window
the bitter snow that drove me old.

How many poems of love, lost in vain!
Today, my windows are wide open,
there is sunshine… many flowers, and it’s summer…

But it’s sad to see by my doorstep,
among so many dead butterflies,
so many poems of love cried in vain!…

Translation by Octavio Corvalán