a terra baldía

April is the cruellest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the deal land, mixing

Memory and desire, stirring

Dull roots with spring rain.

Winter kept uks warm, covering

Earth in forgetful snow, feeding

A little life with dried tubers.

Summer surprised us, coming over  the Starnbergersee

With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,

And went  on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,

And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.

Bin gar keine Russin, stamm aus Litauen,, echt deutsch.

And when we were children, staying at the arch-duke´s,

My cousin´s, he took me  out on a sled,

And I was frightened. He said, Marie,

Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.

In the mountains, there you feel free.

I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow

Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,

You cannot say, or guess, for you know only

A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,

And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,

And the dry stone no sound of water. Only

There is shadow under this red rock,

(come in under the shadow of this red rock),

And I will show you something different from either

Your shadow at morning striding behind you

Or  your shadow at evening rising to meet you;

I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

“You gave me hyacinths first a year ago”

“The called me the hyacinth girl”.

Yet when we came back, late, from the hyacinth garden,

Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither

Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,

Looking into the  heart of light, the silence.

Had a bad cold, nevertheless

Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,

With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,

Is your card, the drowned Phoenician  Sailor,

(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)

Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,

The lady of situations.

Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,

And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,

Which is black, is something he carries on his back,

Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find

The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.

I see the crowds of people, walking round in a ring.

Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,

Tell her I bring the horoscope myself:

One must be so careful these days.

Unreal City,

Under de brown fog of winter dawn,

A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,

I had not thought death had undone so many.

Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled.

And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.

Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,

To where Saint Mary  Woolnoth kept the hours

With a dead sount on the final stroke of nine.

There I saw one I knew, and stoppep him crying: “Stetson!

You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!

That corpse you planted last year in your garden,

Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?

Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?

Oh keep the Dog dar hence, that´s friend to men,

Or with his nails he´ll dig it up again!

You! Hypocrite lecteur? –mon semblade, -mon frère!

The Waste Land

T.S. Eliot

1922

traducido ao galego por Armando Requeixo e María Fé González

A terra baldía

Abril é o mes máis cruel, alimentando

Lilas da tera mortam, mesturado

memorias e desexo, remexendo

escukras raíces con choeva de primavera

o inversno mantiñamos quentes, cubrindo

terra con neve esquecediza, nutrindo

unha miga de vida con secos tubérculos.

O verán sorprendeunos, invadindo o ¨Starnbergersee,

Cun ballón de choeva; nós detivémonos nba columna,

E avanzamos ó sol, ata o Hofgarten,

E bebemos café e conversamos por espacio dunha hora.

Bin gar keine Russin, stamm aus Litauenm, echt deutsch.

E cando eramos nenos, estando en cas do arquiduque,

Meu curmán, levoume nunha zorra

E eu collín medo. E descendemos.

Nas montañas, unha séntese ceibe.

Eu leo, grande parte da noite, e vou ó sur polo inverno.

¿Qué raíces prenden, que ponlas abrollan

Deste lixo pétreo? Fillo de home,

Ti non podes dicilo, nin adiviñalo, pois ti só coñeces

Unha morea de imaxes crebadas, onde o sol bate

E a árbore morta non dá abrigo, nin o grilo dá alivio,

E a pedra seca non dá ruído de auga. Só

Hai sombra baixo esta rocha vermella,

(vente baixo a sombra desta rocha vermella),

E amosareiche algo diferente tanto da

Túa sombra á mañá alancando tras de ti

Coma da túa sombra ó serán subindo a te atopar;

Amosarei o medo nunha presada de po.

“dechesme xacintos por vez primeira hai un ano;

Chamábanme a rapaza dos xacintos”.
- Pero cando volvemos, tarde, do xardín dos xacintos,

Os teus brazos cheos e o teu cabelo húmido, non podía

Falar e os ollos toldábenseme, non estaba nin

Vivo nin morto e non sabía nada,

Ollando no corazón da luz, o silencio.

Madame Sosostris, clarividente famosa,

Tiña un severo catarro, nembargantes,

É coñecida por se-la máis sabia muller de Europa,

Cunha perversa baralla. Aquí, dixo,

Está a súa carta, o Mariñeiro Fenicio afogado,

(esas que son perlas antes foron ollos seus. Ollade!)

Valaquí Belladonna, a Señora das Rochas

A dama das situación.

Velaquí o Home dos TGres Bastos e aquí a Roda,

E aquí está o Clomerciante Vesgo e esta carta,

Que está en branco, é algo que leva el ás costas,

 Que me está prohibido ver. Non atopo

O Home Aforcado. Tema a norte por quga.

Vexo multitudes de xente, camiñando ó redor dun círculo.

Gracias. Se ve  á miña querida Mrs Equitone

Informea de que lle hai de leva-lo horóscopo eu mesma:

Unha debe ser prudente nestes tempos.

Ciudade irreal,

Baixo a parda néboa dunha amencida de inverno,

Unha multitude desbórdase pola ponte de Londres, tantos

Non imaxinei que a norte tivese desfeito a tantos.

Exhalábanse suspiros, curtos e pouco frecuentes,

E cadaquén cravaba os ollos diante dos seus pés.

Fluían costa arriba e baixando King ¨William Street,

Cara a onde Saint Mary Woolnoth daba as horas

Cun son esmorecente na badalada final das nove.

Alí vin a un que coñecía e detíveno berrándolle: “Stetson!

Ti que estabas canda min nas naves de Milas!

Ese cadáver que plantáche-lo o ano pasado no teu xardín,

Comenzou a agromar? Florecerá este ano?

Ou a xeada imprevista lle estragou o leito?

Ei! Mantén o Can lonxe de aquí, que é amigo do home
Ou coas súas unllas volverá de novo desenterralo!