Que caiga esa lluvia fina Let That Fine Rain Fall

Que caiga esa lluvia fina

En esta oscura verdad
que abre sus mantos y sus ebrias mareas para protegernos,
que abre sus alas tristes para ahuyentarnos,
para decir que sí,
que caiga esa lluvia fina frente al umbral;
que caiga como aleteo, como irrupción brevísima.
 
Como un mensajero que, empapado y ardiendo en fiebre,
viene de lejos.
Trae los pliegos, trae las palabras.
Pero el dibujo de la lluvia se extiende
y no deja oír. No deja ver
lo que está sucediendo. Y es que
lo que se acerca,
lo que nos habla
y nos agarra de los hombros con fuerza,
lo que nos grita y nos sacude es la lluvia,
es el confín que se desdibuja.
 
Tiritamos, ardiendo, frente a esa puerta,
frente a ese puente levadizo que nadie baja.
Nadíe se apresta a oír.
 
Esta verdad oscura, esta oscilante levedad
como el murmullo de un sinfín de murciélagos,
todos tanteando,
todos brotando a un tiempo en las despiertas
galerías de la sangre, todos tratando
de salir de las torres.
 
Para decir que sí,
que caiga esa lluvia fina contra el umbral,
que caiga sobre los muros;
 
que los vaya borrando.
 

Let That Fine Rain Fall

Into this dark truth            
which opens its cloak to shield us, dizzying, tidal;
opens its sad wings to shoo us away,
just to say yes,
let that fine rain fall on the threshold;
let it fall like wings beating, like a breaking-open.
 
As a messenger from far away,
drenched and burning with fever,
carries his despatch here, carries the word.
But the patterns of the rain spread out
and won't let us hear, won't let us see
what happens.   And that
is what comes up to us,
speaks to us
and grabs us by the shoulders,
what's shaking and shouting at us is the rain,
it's the horizon dissolving.
 
Now we shiver, we burn, facing that gateway,
facing that drawbridge no-one will drop.
No-one is going to listen.
 
This dark truth, this swaying lightness
like the whisper of endless bats,
all sensing their way,
all surging as one up the veins' living corridors, all trying
to flee the towers.
 
To say yes,
let that mist of rain fall against the threshold,
let it fall on the walls;
 
let it keep erasing them.
 

Let that fine rain fall

In this dark truth
that opens its cloaks/robes and its intoxicated tides to protect us,
that opens its sad wings to drive/frighten us away,
to say yes,
let that fine rain fall before the threshold;
let it fall like the beating of wings, like a momentary irruption.
 
Like a messenger who, soaked and burning with fever,
comes from far,
brings the sealed documents/orders, brings the words.
But the drawing of the rain stretches/extends
and does not allow one to hear. It doesn't allow one to see
what is happening. And it is that
what comes near,
what talks to us
and seizes us by the shoulders forcefully,
what shouts at us and shakes us is the rain,
is the limit/boundary/horizon that gets blurred/fades away.
 
We shiver, burning, in front of that door,
in front of that drawbridge that no-one lowers.
No-one prepares to listen.
 
This dark truth, this oscillating lightness
like the murmur of a great many bats,
all feeling their way,
all appearing/springing up at once in the awake
galleries of the blood, all trying to
get out of the towers.
 
[In order] to say yes,
let that fine rain fall before the threshold,
let it fall on the walls;
 
let it erase them
 

Original Poem by

Coral Bracho

Translated by

Tom Boll with Katherine Pierpoint Language

Spanish

Country

Mexico