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rbcp82's review
4.0
I'm always wary of approaching translated poetry.
A lot of waiting. Love as a metaphor. Suffering as an expression.
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Sun baked the well's depths,
Grilled scolopendras on stones,
Tumble-weed ran wild
Like a hunchback clown somersaulting,
And the sky flying high
Was blue as the Virgin's cloak--
Never had been so blue.
--------------------
Sharp are the black angels' wings,
Soon the judgement of the dead,
And street bonfires blazing red
Like roses in snow are flowering.
-------------------
Magdalina beat her breast and wept, while
The loved disciple seemed hammered out of stone.
But, for the Mother, where she stood in silence, --
No one as much as dared to look that way.
A lot of waiting. Love as a metaphor. Suffering as an expression.
------------------------------
Sun baked the well's depths,
Grilled scolopendras on stones,
Tumble-weed ran wild
Like a hunchback clown somersaulting,
And the sky flying high
Was blue as the Virgin's cloak--
Never had been so blue.
--------------------
Sharp are the black angels' wings,
Soon the judgement of the dead,
And street bonfires blazing red
Like roses in snow are flowering.
-------------------
Magdalina beat her breast and wept, while
The loved disciple seemed hammered out of stone.
But, for the Mother, where she stood in silence, --
No one as much as dared to look that way.
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