Dos árboles
Don Miguel saltó un día de su cama
con una idea en su cabeza bien plantada:
injertar su naranjo en el árbol de limón.
Los desenterró y les podó un lado primero,
luego los ató, y en eso se le fue el día
entero.
Por pavor o por vergüenza, ese año
nada dieron, pero un día amanecieron
dos luces entre las hojas oscuras.
Pasó el tiempo y sus ramas se ceñían
tanto, que doble parecía el fruto
y todos los chicos del pueblo llegaron a
saber
del mágico árbol que crecía en el patio de
Miguel.
El hombre que compró la casa nunca había
tenido un sueño.
Por eso, quién sabe cuál malintencionado
empeño
lo hizo blandir el hacha, dividir el tronco
en dos
por la unión de la costura y luego cavar dos
hoyos.
Y no, nada pasó: no murieron de soledad
ni estériles fueron sus frutos
ni sus flancos lastimados lloraron en
primavera
a cuatro metros de distancia por todo lo que perdieron;
ni torcieron sus raíces para tratar de
alcanzar
un vacío y revuelto abrazo que el otro no
podía dar.
Árboles eran y ellos no gimen ni sufren ni
claman
y al fin de cuentas este poema de árboles
trata.
TWO TREES
One morning, Don Miguel got out of bed
with one idea rooted in his head:
to graft his orange to his lemon tree.
It took him the whole day to work them free,
lay open their sides, and lash them tight.
For twelve months, from the shame or from the fright
they put forth nothing; but one day there appeared
two lights in the dark leaves. Over the years
the limbs would get themselves so tangled up
each bough looked like it gave a double crop,
and not one kid in the village didn't know
the magic tree in Miguel's patio.
The man who bought the house had had no dream
so who can say what dark malicious whim
led him to take his axe and split the bole
along its fused seam, then dig two holes.
And no, they did not die from solitude;
nor did their branches bear a sterile fruit;
nor did their unhealed flanks weep every spring
for those four yards that lost them everything,
as each strained on its shackled roots to face
the other's empty, intricate embrace.
They were trees, and trees don't weep or ache or shout.
And trees are all this poem is about.
One morning, Don Miguel got out of bed
with one idea rooted in his head:
to graft his orange to his lemon tree.
It took him the whole day to work them free,
lay open their sides, and lash them tight.
For twelve months, from the shame or from the fright
they put forth nothing; but one day there appeared
two lights in the dark leaves. Over the years
the limbs would get themselves so tangled up
each bough looked like it gave a double crop,
and not one kid in the village didn't know
the magic tree in Miguel's patio.
The man who bought the house had had no dream
so who can say what dark malicious whim
led him to take his axe and split the bole
along its fused seam, then dig two holes.
And no, they did not die from solitude;
nor did their branches bear a sterile fruit;
nor did their unhealed flanks weep every spring
for those four yards that lost them everything,
as each strained on its shackled roots to face
the other's empty, intricate embrace.
They were trees, and trees don't weep or ache or shout.
And trees are all this poem is about.
