Such a small country, spread on an isthmus
where the sky is clearer, the sun brighter;
all your music echoes within me, like the sea
in the small cell of the conch.
Yet again, there are times I feel dread
when I don't see the way back to you...
Perhaps I'd never have known such love,
if destiny hadn't carried me over the sea.
La Patria is memory... Scraps of life
wrapped in ribbons of love or of pain;
the murmur of palms, the commonplace songs,
the garden, stripped of its flowers.
La Patria is a map of old winding trails,
that, from childhood, I tramped without pause,
on which stand the ancient familiar trees
that talk to us of the soul in times long past.
Instead of these towers, arrowed with gold,
where the sun comes to lose its heart,
leave me the old trunk where I carved a date,
where I stole a kiss, where I learned to dream.
Oh, my ancient towers, beloved and remote:
I feel such nostalgia for your pealing bells!
I have seen many towers, heard many bells,
but have known none, my distant towers,
to sing like you, to sing and to weep.
La Patria is memory... Scraps of life
wrapped in ribbons of love or of pain;
the murmur of palms, the commonplace songs,
the garden, stripped of its flowers.
Such a small country, all of you will fit
beneath the shadow of our flag: perhaps
you were so pretty, to ensure I'd carry you
everywhere in my heart!
Ricardo Miró (1883 - 1940) Panama
Translated by Tom Pow
Great poemm, rich in feeling!
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