Antonio Machado - Fields of Castile/Campos de Castilla: A Dual-Language Book

... In the interlude of spring.

Valcarce, dear friend, if I had
the voice I used to have, Id sing
el intermedio de tu primavera
porque aprendiz he sido de ruiseor un da,
y el rumor de tu huertoentre las flores
el agua oculta corre, pasa y suena
por acequias, regatos y atanores,
y el inquieto bullir de tu colmena,
y esa doliente juventud que tiene
ardores de faunalias,
y que pisando viene
la huella a mis sandalias.

Mas hoy... ser porque el enigma grave
me tent en la desierta galera,
y abr con una diminuta llave
el ventanal del fondo que da a la mar sombra?
Ser porque se ha ido
quien asent mis pasos en la tierra,
y en este nuevo ejido
sin rubia mies, la soledad me aterra?

No s, Valcarce, mas cantar no puedo;
se ha dormido la voz en mi garganta,
y tiene el corazn un salmo quedo.
Ya slo reza el corazn, no canta.

Mas hoy, Valcarce, como un fraile viejo
puedo hacer confesin, que es dar consejo.

En este da claro, en que descansa
tu carne de quimeras y amoros
as en amplio silencio se remansa
el agua bullidora de los ros,
no guardes en tu cofre la galana
veste dominical, el limpio traje,
para llenar de lgrimas maana
la mustia seda y el marchito encaje,
sino viste, Valcarce, dulce amigo,
gala de fiesta para andar contigo.

Y cete la espada rutilante,
y lleva tu armadura,
the interlude of your springtime
because I was once an apprentice to the nightingale
and the sounds of your gardenamid the flowers
the hidden water flows, passes, and resounds
through irrigation ditches, streams, and pipes
and the restless swarming in your beehive,
and that sorrowful youth which has
the fervor of Faunalia,
and which comes to tread
the prints of my sandals.

But today... is it because the grave enigma
tempted me in the deserted gallery
and I opened with a tiny key
the large window at the far end which faces the somber sea?
Is it because that person is gone
who planted my steps firmly on the earth,
and on this new commons
lacking a yellow harvest, the solitude frightens me?

I dont know, Valcarce, but Im unable to sing;
the voice in my throat has gone to sleep,
and my heart has a tranquil psalm.
Now my heart only prays, it doesnt sing.

But today, Valcarce, like an old friar
I can make confession, which means giving advice.

On this bright day, when your flesh
is resting from its wild fancies and its romances
in the same way, the seething water
of the rivers rests in a broad, silent pool
dont keep in your chest your elegant
Sunday clothes, your clean suit,
in order to fill with tears tomorrow
the faded silk and worn-out lace,
but, Valcarce, may dear friend, put on
holiday finery to go about in.

And gird on a gleaming sword,
and wear your armor,
el peto de diamante
debajo de la blanca vestidura.

Quin sabe! Acaso tu domingo sea
la jornada guerrera y laboriosa,
el da del Seor, que no reposa,
el claro da en que el Seor pelea.