Piero di Cosimo, Death of Procris, circa 1495
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LA MUERTE DE PROCRIS
Piero di Cosimo
[...] Así yace, desnuda entre cendales,
inmersa en naturaleza que campa
sin reparar en que por tierra yazga
demudada;
flores, lejano estero argentino,
mayas, llantenes, rojas y blancas
flores que puntean entre frondas;
el agua con su pelícano,
revuelo de velas, y azules campiñas
en sí están embebidas:
los perros juegan en la arena,
las garzas se encorvan sobre juncias
o recalan del cielo una por una,
mientras inerte ella se avena
por la gorja y mano tintas.
Bermejas y grandes contra el cielo
vense dos formas a su cabeza y pies;
una es un grave podenco, la otra
un fauno consumado,
criatura fantástica, de negro pelaje,
con carnosa, vellida oreja engarfiada;
bajo el mentón las tunas setas brotan
conspicuas; un cuerno de ónice estriado
le apunta en cada sien; finos perniles
de la yerba asoman y vedijosos
muslos; ase la mano izquierda
el hombro de la moza y la derecha
su frente recorre: los ojos plácidos
vacilan; recia, ruda
piedad hincha su belfo.
La guarda del can y el escudriñar
del selvático, que ansioso se inclina,
tienen pareja expresión de pasmo
y profundo,
reverente anhelo: tales observadores
salen de sí mismos, si bien sólo
para aprehender entresoñado dolor.
No alcanzan a pensar ni a plañir
sobre los finados celos y quejas,
sobre tal bulto humano tendido;
mas con ánimo vago
sentados miran, mientras marea, flor y ave
viven a su sólito modo, por mortal
pena imperturbables
y jamás compungidos.
Con todo llega otoño, flota la luz
que tardo octubre alumbra en el aire
y en la marina; las hojas revuelan
en lontananza,
esbelto abedul mozo en la ribera, banda
de garzas, poseen calma de soledades
si escalofríos entreveran la solana;
las navecillas pronto habrán partido,
y las rúbeas y pálidas flores morirán,
sólo las plantas perennes que atollan
su verdor, con perfil de ébano,
contra el confín, mientras derraman
en sátiro y perro asentados cerca
flecos rojos, lo embozarán
hasta que bufe la ventisca.
*
THE DEATH OF PROCRIS
Piero di Cosimo
[...] And thus she lies half-veiled, half-bare,
Deep in the midst of nature that abides
Inapprehensive she is lying there,
So wan ;
The flowers, the silver estuary afar—
These daisies, plantains, all the white and red
Field-blossoms through the leaves and grasses spread;
The water with its pelican,
Its flight of sails and its blue countrysides—
Unto themselves they are :
The dogs sport on the sand,
The herons curve above the reeds
Or one by one descend the air,
While lifelessly she bleeds
From throat and dabbled hand.
Russet and large against the sky,
Two figures at her head and feet are seen ;
One is a solemn hound, one utterly
A faun,
A creature of wild fashion, with black fell
On which a fleshy, furred ear loops out ;
Under his chin the boorish bristles sprout
Distinct ; an onyx-banded horn
Springs from each temple ; slender legs between
The herbage peep and well-
Fleeced thighs ; his left hand grips
Her shoulder and the right along
Her forehead moves : his mellow eye
Is indecisive ; strong,
Coarse pity swells his lips.
The tall dog's vigil and the gaze
Of the wild man, by eagerness bent low,
Have each a like expression of amaze
And deep,
Respectful yearning : these two watchers pass
Out of themselves, though only to attain
Incomprehensible, half-wakened pain.
They cannot think nor weep
Above this perished jealousy and woe,
This prostrate, human mass ;
But with vague souls they sit
And gaze, while tide and bloom and bird
Live on in their familiar ways,
By mortal grief unstirred
And never sad with it.
Yet autumn comes, there is the light
Born of October's lateness in the sky
And on the sea-side ; leaves have taken flight
From yon,
Slim seedling-birch on the rivage, the flock
Of herons has the quiet of solitude,
That comes when chills on sunny air intrude ;
The little ships must soon be gone,
And soon the pale and ruddy flowers shall die,
Save the untransient plants that block
Their green out, ebon-clear,
Against the distance, while they drop,
On hound and satyr settled nigh,
Red tassels that shall stop
Till windy snows appear.
Michael Field [Katherine Harris Bradley/Edith Emma Cooper]
di-versión©ochoislas
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Art Postcard, Death of Procris by Piero Di Cosimo DH6
http://dlvr.it/RHhPl5
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