La libertad no termina
con dos o tres derrotas
o cualquier número de reveses,
ni por la indiferencia
o la ingratitud de la gente,
ni por la infidelidad,
ni ante los soldados y los cañones,
ni por los códigos penales,
ni porque los intelectuales
hayan firmado un armisticio.
Lo que creemos está latente siempre
en todos los continentes,
invita a nadie, promete nada,
espera en calma, absorto,
y no conoce el desaliento,
espera pacientemente su hora.
Esta es la canción a la lealtad,
la canción insurrecta,
pues yo soy el poeta
de todos los indómitos
rebeldes del mundo.
El que sale conmigo
deja atrás la paz y la rutina
y sabe que puede perder la vida
en cualquier momento.
La batalla ocurre ruidosa,
con avances y retiradas.
El enemigo es victorioso
o se cree victorioso.
Viene la prisión,
el shock eléctrico,
la soledad.
Los héroes conocidos
y los anónimos
pasan a otras esferas.
Los grandes oradores,
los escritores van al exilio.
Yacen enfermos en tierras lejanas,
la causa duerme,
las gargantas se pasman,
los jóvenes bajan la vista cuando se pasan.
Qué bella es la derrota.
con dos o tres derrotas
o cualquier número de reveses,
ni por la indiferencia
o la ingratitud de la gente,
ni por la infidelidad,
ni ante los soldados y los cañones,
ni por los códigos penales,
ni porque los intelectuales
hayan firmado un armisticio.
Lo que creemos está latente siempre
en todos los continentes,
invita a nadie, promete nada,
espera en calma, absorto,
y no conoce el desaliento,
espera pacientemente su hora.
Esta es la canción a la lealtad,
la canción insurrecta,
pues yo soy el poeta
de todos los indómitos
rebeldes del mundo.
El que sale conmigo
deja atrás la paz y la rutina
y sabe que puede perder la vida
en cualquier momento.
La batalla ocurre ruidosa,
con avances y retiradas.
El enemigo es victorioso
o se cree victorioso.
Viene la prisión,
el shock eléctrico,
la soledad.
Los héroes conocidos
y los anónimos
pasan a otras esferas.
Los grandes oradores,
los escritores van al exilio.
Yacen enfermos en tierras lejanas,
la causa duerme,
las gargantas se pasman,
los jóvenes bajan la vista cuando se pasan.
Qué bella es la derrota.
inviata da Alessandro - 25/1/2010 - 15:28
Il testo della poesia di Withman.
TO A FOIL'D EUROPEAN REVOLUTIONAIRE
COURAGE yet, my brother or my sister!
Keep on - Liberty is to be subserv'd whatever occurs;
That is nothing that is quell'd by one or two failures, or any
number of failures,
Or by the indifference or ingratitude of the people, or by any
unfaithfulness,
Or the show of the tushes of power, soldiers, cannon, penal
statutes.
What we believe in waits latent forever through all the continents,
Invites no one, promises nothing, sits in calmness and light, is
positive and composed, knows no discouragement,
Waiting patiently, waiting its time.
(Not songs of loyalty alone are these,
But songs of insurrection also,
For I am the sworn poet of every dauntless rebel the world over,
And he going with me leaves peace and routine behind him,
And stakes his life to be lost at any moment.)
The battle rages with many a loud alarm and frequent advance and
retreat,
The infidel triumphs, or supposes he triumphs,
The prison, scaffold, garrote, handcuffs, iron necklace and
leadballs do their work,
The named and unnamed heroes pass to other spheres,
The great speakers and writers are exiled, they lie sick in distant
lands,
The cause is asleep, the strongest throats are choked with their own
blood,
The young men droop their eyelashes toward the ground when they
meet;
But for all this Liberty has not gone out of the place, nor the
infidel enter'd into full possession.
When liberty goes out of a place it is not the first to go, nor the
second or third to go,
It waits for all the rest to go, it is the last.
When there are no more memories of heroes and martyrs,
And when all life and all the souls of men and women are discharged
from any part of the earth,
Then only shall liberty or the idea of liberty be discharged from
that part of the earth,
And the infidel come into full possession.
Then courage European revolter, revoltress!
For till all ceases neither must you cease.
I do not know what you are for, (I do not know what I am for myself,
nor what any thing is for,)
But I will search carefully for it even in being foil'd,
In defeat, poverty, misconception, imprisonment-for they too are
great.
Did we think victory great?
So it is - but now it seems to me, when it cannot be help'd, that
defeat is great,
And that death and dismay are great.
TO A FOIL'D EUROPEAN REVOLUTIONAIRE
COURAGE yet, my brother or my sister!
Keep on - Liberty is to be subserv'd whatever occurs;
That is nothing that is quell'd by one or two failures, or any
number of failures,
Or by the indifference or ingratitude of the people, or by any
unfaithfulness,
Or the show of the tushes of power, soldiers, cannon, penal
statutes.
What we believe in waits latent forever through all the continents,
Invites no one, promises nothing, sits in calmness and light, is
positive and composed, knows no discouragement,
Waiting patiently, waiting its time.
(Not songs of loyalty alone are these,
But songs of insurrection also,
For I am the sworn poet of every dauntless rebel the world over,
And he going with me leaves peace and routine behind him,
And stakes his life to be lost at any moment.)
The battle rages with many a loud alarm and frequent advance and
retreat,
The infidel triumphs, or supposes he triumphs,
The prison, scaffold, garrote, handcuffs, iron necklace and
leadballs do their work,
The named and unnamed heroes pass to other spheres,
The great speakers and writers are exiled, they lie sick in distant
lands,
The cause is asleep, the strongest throats are choked with their own
blood,
The young men droop their eyelashes toward the ground when they
meet;
But for all this Liberty has not gone out of the place, nor the
infidel enter'd into full possession.
When liberty goes out of a place it is not the first to go, nor the
second or third to go,
It waits for all the rest to go, it is the last.
When there are no more memories of heroes and martyrs,
And when all life and all the souls of men and women are discharged
from any part of the earth,
Then only shall liberty or the idea of liberty be discharged from
that part of the earth,
And the infidel come into full possession.
Then courage European revolter, revoltress!
For till all ceases neither must you cease.
I do not know what you are for, (I do not know what I am for myself,
nor what any thing is for,)
But I will search carefully for it even in being foil'd,
In defeat, poverty, misconception, imprisonment-for they too are
great.
Did we think victory great?
So it is - but now it seems to me, when it cannot be help'd, that
defeat is great,
And that death and dismay are great.
Alessandro - 25/1/2010 - 15:31
×
![]()
Album "Poeta en San Juan"
Testo trovato su Cancioneros.com
Da una poesia di Walt Whitman intitolata "To a Foil'd European Revolutionaire" e contenuta in "Leaves of Grass" (seconda edizione 1856, settima edizione 1881).