Yolanda Castaño

加利西亚文

Pasei tantas veces por aquí… e nunca vos vira.

Estamos a facer un inventario minucioso,
coma o herbario dunha constelación impredicible.
Están primeiro os lirios, adobío de estrelas precipitadas,
as dalias e os crisantemos,
hai que contar as papoulas porque tamén o merecen as
           flores tímidas e miúdas.
A da figueira é unha flor subliminar.
As máis librescas de todas, as inflorescencias en capítulo.
A orquídea é claramente unha flor sicalíptica,
imítase de máis, non sigo por aí.
O hibisco enche de antollos e proverbios a tarde.
Hortensias: contádeme canto de feliz fun aquí.
Están os iris, a lavanda, a chamada rosa de té.
E logo está a magnolia que, como o seu nome indica,
en tempos debeu de dar emblema a algún tipo de soberanía mongol.
Calas, anémonas, o aguerrido síntoma do rododendro.
Despois están outros prodixios rexistrables en latitudes afastadas,
como a indicible flor do chilamate
que se sente pero non se ve, coma
ese fondo amor que sobe coma un bramido dende os xeonllos.
Hai
ambroíños de río, rosas chinesas, dentes de león.
Temos tamén cosmos e azar e pensamentos pero esas son xa
flores máis conceptuais.
A pasiflora é coma o trono dunha resposta, o
                                           baldaquino dunha consideración.
Hai flores que levan para sempre o nome do primeiro ollo que as viu.
Lilas, caléndulas, caraveliñas.
Non podo esquecer as mimosas, enxame de diminutas advertencias,
nin as miñas absolutas consentidas: fragor indecente das buganvíleas.


Pero, xa vos dicía, non sei, é curioso,
pasei tantas veces por aquí e…
non,
non vos vira
nunca.

[en Cuadernos de Villa Waldberta/Aufzeichnungen aus der Villa Waldberta, Instituto Cervantes de Munich y Ayuntamiento de Munich, ALEMANIA] (2012)

© Yolanda Castaño
录制: Literaturwerkstatt Berlin, 2015

I Passed By Here So Many Times, and Never Saw You Before

We are making a detailed inventory,
like the herbarium of an unforeseeable constellation.
First are the lilies, adornment of splattered stars;
the dahlias and the chrysanthemums;
the poppies need to be included because those tiny, shy flowers also deserve it.
The fig tree's flower is subliminal.
The most bookish of all: the capitula of the infloresences.
The orchid is clearly a lascivious flower,
it too closely resembles–I shan't go there.
The hibiscus fills the afternoon with whims and proverbs.
Hydrangeas: tell me how happy I was here.
There are the iris, the lavender, what is called the tea rose.
And then there is the magnolia that, as its name indicates,
must once have been the emblem of some kind of Mongol sovereignty.
Callas, anemones, the rhododendron's hardened indication.
Then there are other prodigies findable in distant latitudes,
like the unspeakable chilamate flower,
that is felt but not seen, like
that deep love that rises like a bellow from the knees.
There are
water lilies, Chinese roses, dandelions.
We also have cosmos and sage and impatiens but those are already
more conceptual flowers.
The passion-flower is like the throne of an answer, the
                                                   canopy of a consideration.
There are flowers that forever bear the name of the first eye that saw them.
Lilacs, marigolds, carnations.
I cannot forget the mimosas, swarm of tiny warnings,
nor my most spoiled: the indecent scent of the bougainvilleas.

But, I already told you–I don't know, it's strange,
I've passed by here so many times and
no,
I never saw you
before.

Translation by Lawrence Schimel