Cantores Que Reflexionan
En la prisión de la ansiedad
medita un astro en alta voz;
gime y se agita como león,
como queriéndose escapar.
¿De dónde viene su corcel
con ese brillo abrumador?
¡Parece falso el arrebol
que se desprende de su ser!
"Viene del reino de Satán",
toda su sangre respondió,
"quemas el árbol del amor,
dejas cenizas al pasar".
Va prisionero del placer
y siervo de la vanidad;
busca la luz de la verdad,
mas la mentira está a sus pies.
Gloria le tiende terca red
y le aprisiona el corazón
en los silencios de su voz
que se va ahogando sin querer.
La candileja artificial
le ha encandilado la razón.
¡Dale tu mano, amigo Sol,
en su tremenda oscuridad!
¿Qué es lo que canta, digo yo?
No se consigue responder.
Vana es la abeja sin su miel,
vana la hoz sin segador.
¿Es el dinero alguna luz
para los ojos que no ven?
"Treinta denarios y una cruz",
responde el eco de Israel.
¿De dónde viene tu mentir,
y adónde empieza tu verdad?
¡Parece broma tu mirar,
llanto parece tu reír!
Y su conciencia dijo al fin,
"cántale al hombre en su dolor,
en su miseria y su sudor,
y en su motivo de existir."
Cuando del fondo de su ser
entendimiento así le habló,
un vino nuevo le endulzó
las amarguras de su hiel.
Hoy es su canto un azadón
que le abre surcos al vivir,
a la justicia en su raíz,
y a los raudales de su voz.
En su divina comprensión,
luces brotaban del cantor.
Singers Who Reflect
In the prison of anxiety
a star meditates out loud;
it groans and stirs like a lion,
as if wanting to escape.
Where does its steed come from
with that overwhelming shine?
The glow that emanates from its being
seems fake!
'It comes from Satan's realm,'
his blood replied,
'you burn the tree of love,
leaving ashes in your wake'.
He is a prisoner of pleasure
and a servant of vanity;
he seeks the light of truth,
but lies are at his feet.
Glory stubbornly extends its net
and imprisons his heart
in the silences of his voice
that fades away unintentionally.
The artificial lamp
has blinded his reason.
Give him your hand, friend Sun,
in his tremendous darkness!
What is he singing, I ask?
No answer can be found.
The bee is vain without its honey,
the sickle is vain without the reaper.
Is money a light
for eyes that cannot see?
'Thirty denarii and a cross,'
Israel's echo replies.
Where does your lie come from,
and where does your truth begin?
Your gaze seems like a joke,
your laughter seems like crying!
And his conscience finally said,
'sing to man in his pain,
in his misery and sweat,
and in his reason for existence.'
When from the depths of his being
understanding spoke to him thus,
a new wine sweetened
the bitterness of his gall.
Today his song is a hoe
that opens furrows in living,
to justice at its root,
and to the torrents of his voice.
In his divine understanding,
lights sprang forth from the singer.