The tempest raged; and I, meanwhile,
from mountain crest to foothill, my face in my hand,
shed tears—bitter, unending tears.
Grief held me in its stupor,
my soul sunk in slumber;
but when the torpor of anguish at last broke,
the sky was clear, the wind was calm…
And with a mingling of wonder, bitterness, and pain,
I lifted my gaze to contemplate the heavens.
Sirius blazed without ceasing;
Saturn, fixed in the zenith,
watched over universal life.
The Milky Way, sparkling with taciturn light,
encircled the world in a vast belt
of glittering scales, like
the infinite symbolic serpent
that forever devours itself.
What silence! O God! What weariness!
What profound, fatal indifference!
How strange is this all-encompassing force
to the frailty of man’s existence!
To grasp it is to feel the sudden blow
that strikes and weighs upon the conscience,
revealing in its deepest abysses
a tremendous and relentless truth.
The world revolves in the vast firmament
with august pomp and supreme majesty,
setting in motion, in harmonious rhythm,
the great, endless system of the stars;
and man passes, bearing his lament,
grappling with the enigma of his own being.
He suffers and dies—yet his end does not disturb
the eternal feast of life.
An immense Being, enclosed in its own designs,
the universe reigns sovereign;
or else it is a colossal, blind mechanism,
turning without cease—
and man, who feels most keenly of all,
is but a fragile mote, a fleeting grain,
poised at the edge of being crushed,
powerless to halt the giant wheel’s eternal motion.
Perhaps he is but a spring in that vast,
marvelous, divine machine—
a suffering spring nonetheless,
aware of its own coming ruin;
a being whose sorrowful smallness
contrasts with the instinct to rise;
living each day in base captivity,
yet dreaming of eternal life and freedom.
He lives—bearing the tormenting drama
of his own thoughts;
a strange amalgam, wretched and discordant,
of opposing elements in constant strife;
a blend of shadow and celestial flame,
an antithesis at every instant;
a hybrid creature, and of all that exists,
the saddest victim of fate.
Like the ill-starred prince
of strange Eastern tales,
turned to stone from the waist down,
weeping motionless over his eternal woes;
fused to lifeless matter,
man too, bound by fatal ties,
from the depths of earth
lifts his anxious eyes and sighs to heaven.
Fortunate the pure, strong angel,
whose airy essence is not weighed down by clay;
the motionless plant, the inert mineral,
are insensible, mindless matter;
the brute creature feels the blows of fate,
yet does not give its pain and misery
a perpetual, hundredfold existence
through the refracting glass of consciousness.
Only he, proclaimed noble king
of all creation at the summit,
is granted the high privilege
of reason to light his night;
he bears thought, that royal seal
glowing inwardly upon his brow,
a mirror to the mysterious universe
and to his own being, its shadow and reflection.
The sun, robed in eternal majesty,
rises calmly over the ocean,
its cerulean breast heaving
as if trembling with love;
it seems a boiling sea of molten gold,
its face aflame, its bright vapor
floating in air, climbing the mountain,
blurring the horizon’s edge.
When golden rays strike jagged peaks,
and from valleys and slopes
smoke curls from the cabins;
the lowing of cattle drifts from afar;
the voices of mountains and plains
fill the world with light, life, and sound.
Foaming torrents,
tumbling from dark and rugged heights,
glitter on the steep hillsides,
and pour into the valleys;
resonant rivers wander playfully
through woods, villages, and fields,
vanishing into the distant haze
like a dream of love and hope.
The august, fervent, silent hour
of midday’s universal calm,
when Earth lies in rapture
beneath her white, fiery mantle;
the mysterious shadow of evening;
the urgent toll of the bell
as the sun retreats step by step
into the grandeur of the sunset;
The joyful song of the laborer,
happier than kings,
returning at ease with his slow oxen
after the day’s toil;
the sounds from farms and vineyards;
the trampling and bleating of flocks
gently led to the fold by the shepherd
in the fading light of day.
Venus gleams, pure and radiant,
beneath the uncertain veil of twilight;
a multitude of stars sparkle
in the deep concave of the sky,
while the earth is still shrouded in shadow;
and the soul feels a longing beyond words
beneath that vast, trembling canopy
of living, burning, radiant light.
The triumphant moon appears
in the bluest void,
its tranquil rays silvering lagoons,
mountains, forests, rivers;
while night perhaps gathers
its mysteries in its dark confines,
and from the shadowed sea
echoes the murmur and the tumult.
Those hazy nights when the heavens
are veiled in dim vapor,
and the moon trembles
over the troubled, dark sea,
its silvery, glittering path
following the gentle sway of the silent waves—
then in the soul stirs
the memory of some more august life.
The motionless, severe mountains
mirrored in the deep lake,
whose shining surface
only the lightest breeze disturbs;
its waves expiring on tranquil shores
with a vague murmur;
the distant snow peaks
lifting domes of gleaming crystal.
The pale blue dawn
breaking over uncertain valleys;
the tender whisper of flowers
bent by the breeze;
the murmuring of hidden brooks;
the bright smile of heaven;
the white cloud drifting in its depths;
the turtledove moaning in the grove.
Every varied, splendid aspect
of the world’s panorama;
every sound or plaintive note
of the august hymn diffused through creation,
fills the heart with a deep, unknown feeling;
and to the universe
he clasps his soul in a giant embrace,
longing to unite with it forever.
He longs to perpetually behold
the beauty of earth and sky;
to follow in its swift course
the glory and immortality of nature;
to turn with the celestial sphere,
in ecstasy of love and joy,
roaming the vast solitudes of ether,
travelling through the ages with it.
He would know the law that conquers death,
to enjoy a life inexhaustible,
without night, sunset, or dawn—
boundless, eternal, immeasurable;
and to quench the infinite thirst that devours him,
thus united with the universe,
his spirit mingling with its essence,
plunging into cosmic existence.
But creation, with its splendor
of eternal stars, its living chorus
of beings, songs, and sounds—
this immense festival in which humanity,
garlanded with flowers, marches to die—
recalls the innocent, resigned Iphigenia
offered before an unknown god.
And he sees that his hope is vain;
that he is but the mark
of fate’s tremendous wrath,
an offering upon its altar;
driven by an unseen hand, man moves on,
groaning along life’s road,
at whose end, silently,
awaits the universal and eternal grave.
O unspeakable pain! O eternal misfortune,
inevitable and infinite!
Fatal contradiction, law of bitterness
decreed for our unhappy race!
If everywhere the wretched being
is bound by his own sad condition,
why this inward thirst that devours us
for love, life, and eternal bliss?
Why this yearning of a giant spirit
placed in a fleeting, paltry frame?
Why this incessant desire
for the eternal, immortal, divine,
if life is but the irrevocable dream of a moment,
a mist in the blue that gathers
and is scattered by the wind?
No! Armed in the sevenfold cuirass
of steadfast will, the strong soul
will await the blow with which death,
unfailing, strikes the unarmed breast—
O unhappy race of Adam,
ill-starred child of fate!—
and will meet it with the calm and greatness
of an unvanquished heart.
Like the captive warrior
from the enemy’s tribe,
poised to face a cruel death,
the bound Indian counts the brief hours left;
motionless, silent, and proud,
he seeks no pity from his foes;
he accepts his fate,
and meets their fury with disdain.
His mind returns to the past—
the whispering wind in the thicket
telling of his jungle, his hut, his beloved;
he lifts his bowed head with pride;
his eyes flash as he confronts
the savage chorus of his executioners;
and at last he lifts his voice in song—
A chant of death and victory,
triumphant and mournful;
the bloody chronicle of his battles;
the apotheosis of his glory;
the solace for his torment.
On his parched lips he breathes his last,
surrendering his body
to the blaze of the pyre.
So you, O noble and steadfast soul,
quickened with manly vigor,
must accept from fate
its unjust and barbarous sentence;
you will face the imminent visage of death
with stoic indifference;
and in dying, without weakness or falter,
you will sing your funeral song.
In it you will tell of your fleeting years—
the struggles, cares, and pains;
the doubts and disappointments;
the blows of fickle fortune;
the slow decay of age;
the sudden, eternal farewells
to those we love, tearing half our life away.
You will tell of the siege of unseen foes
in life’s fierce battle;
the lethal, irremediable poison
lurking in our cup;
the mounting anguish, the deep weariness
of our sorrowful earthly journey;
and with a bitter, scornful tone,
you will cast it toward the heavens.
Like ancient Prometheus,
guilty and suffering on the high rock,
who before Zeus utters no vile plea for pity—
his giant form chained,
his lips sealed in disdain—
but, sublime, his head held high,
proclaims his protest
before eternal justice.
Yes—let it be that, in dying,
the cry of the wretched creature
rise at least to pierce the skies,
echoing through the heights;
let it resound forever in the silent void,
its tone of bitterness vibrating—
until at last it fades, succumbs,
and falls to dust in an unremembered grave.
To Don Juan Valera
Numa Pompilio Llona (1832 - 1907) Ecuador
Translated by Richard Gabela
Source: Ecuadorian Literature
from mountain crest to foothill, my face in my hand,
shed tears—bitter, unending tears.
Grief held me in its stupor,
my soul sunk in slumber;
but when the torpor of anguish at last broke,
the sky was clear, the wind was calm…
And with a mingling of wonder, bitterness, and pain,
I lifted my gaze to contemplate the heavens.
Sirius blazed without ceasing;
Saturn, fixed in the zenith,
watched over universal life.
The Milky Way, sparkling with taciturn light,
encircled the world in a vast belt
of glittering scales, like
the infinite symbolic serpent
that forever devours itself.
What silence! O God! What weariness!
What profound, fatal indifference!
How strange is this all-encompassing force
to the frailty of man’s existence!
To grasp it is to feel the sudden blow
that strikes and weighs upon the conscience,
revealing in its deepest abysses
a tremendous and relentless truth.
The world revolves in the vast firmament
with august pomp and supreme majesty,
setting in motion, in harmonious rhythm,
the great, endless system of the stars;
and man passes, bearing his lament,
grappling with the enigma of his own being.
He suffers and dies—yet his end does not disturb
the eternal feast of life.
An immense Being, enclosed in its own designs,
the universe reigns sovereign;
or else it is a colossal, blind mechanism,
turning without cease—
and man, who feels most keenly of all,
is but a fragile mote, a fleeting grain,
poised at the edge of being crushed,
powerless to halt the giant wheel’s eternal motion.
Perhaps he is but a spring in that vast,
marvelous, divine machine—
a suffering spring nonetheless,
aware of its own coming ruin;
a being whose sorrowful smallness
contrasts with the instinct to rise;
living each day in base captivity,
yet dreaming of eternal life and freedom.
He lives—bearing the tormenting drama
of his own thoughts;
a strange amalgam, wretched and discordant,
of opposing elements in constant strife;
a blend of shadow and celestial flame,
an antithesis at every instant;
a hybrid creature, and of all that exists,
the saddest victim of fate.
Like the ill-starred prince
of strange Eastern tales,
turned to stone from the waist down,
weeping motionless over his eternal woes;
fused to lifeless matter,
man too, bound by fatal ties,
from the depths of earth
lifts his anxious eyes and sighs to heaven.
Fortunate the pure, strong angel,
whose airy essence is not weighed down by clay;
the motionless plant, the inert mineral,
are insensible, mindless matter;
the brute creature feels the blows of fate,
yet does not give its pain and misery
a perpetual, hundredfold existence
through the refracting glass of consciousness.
Only he, proclaimed noble king
of all creation at the summit,
is granted the high privilege
of reason to light his night;
he bears thought, that royal seal
glowing inwardly upon his brow,
a mirror to the mysterious universe
and to his own being, its shadow and reflection.
The sun, robed in eternal majesty,
rises calmly over the ocean,
its cerulean breast heaving
as if trembling with love;
it seems a boiling sea of molten gold,
its face aflame, its bright vapor
floating in air, climbing the mountain,
blurring the horizon’s edge.
When golden rays strike jagged peaks,
and from valleys and slopes
smoke curls from the cabins;
the lowing of cattle drifts from afar;
the voices of mountains and plains
fill the world with light, life, and sound.
Foaming torrents,
tumbling from dark and rugged heights,
glitter on the steep hillsides,
and pour into the valleys;
resonant rivers wander playfully
through woods, villages, and fields,
vanishing into the distant haze
like a dream of love and hope.
The august, fervent, silent hour
of midday’s universal calm,
when Earth lies in rapture
beneath her white, fiery mantle;
the mysterious shadow of evening;
the urgent toll of the bell
as the sun retreats step by step
into the grandeur of the sunset;
The joyful song of the laborer,
happier than kings,
returning at ease with his slow oxen
after the day’s toil;
the sounds from farms and vineyards;
the trampling and bleating of flocks
gently led to the fold by the shepherd
in the fading light of day.
Venus gleams, pure and radiant,
beneath the uncertain veil of twilight;
a multitude of stars sparkle
in the deep concave of the sky,
while the earth is still shrouded in shadow;
and the soul feels a longing beyond words
beneath that vast, trembling canopy
of living, burning, radiant light.
The triumphant moon appears
in the bluest void,
its tranquil rays silvering lagoons,
mountains, forests, rivers;
while night perhaps gathers
its mysteries in its dark confines,
and from the shadowed sea
echoes the murmur and the tumult.
Those hazy nights when the heavens
are veiled in dim vapor,
and the moon trembles
over the troubled, dark sea,
its silvery, glittering path
following the gentle sway of the silent waves—
then in the soul stirs
the memory of some more august life.
The motionless, severe mountains
mirrored in the deep lake,
whose shining surface
only the lightest breeze disturbs;
its waves expiring on tranquil shores
with a vague murmur;
the distant snow peaks
lifting domes of gleaming crystal.
The pale blue dawn
breaking over uncertain valleys;
the tender whisper of flowers
bent by the breeze;
the murmuring of hidden brooks;
the bright smile of heaven;
the white cloud drifting in its depths;
the turtledove moaning in the grove.
Every varied, splendid aspect
of the world’s panorama;
every sound or plaintive note
of the august hymn diffused through creation,
fills the heart with a deep, unknown feeling;
and to the universe
he clasps his soul in a giant embrace,
longing to unite with it forever.
He longs to perpetually behold
the beauty of earth and sky;
to follow in its swift course
the glory and immortality of nature;
to turn with the celestial sphere,
in ecstasy of love and joy,
roaming the vast solitudes of ether,
travelling through the ages with it.
He would know the law that conquers death,
to enjoy a life inexhaustible,
without night, sunset, or dawn—
boundless, eternal, immeasurable;
and to quench the infinite thirst that devours him,
thus united with the universe,
his spirit mingling with its essence,
plunging into cosmic existence.
But creation, with its splendor
of eternal stars, its living chorus
of beings, songs, and sounds—
this immense festival in which humanity,
garlanded with flowers, marches to die—
recalls the innocent, resigned Iphigenia
offered before an unknown god.
And he sees that his hope is vain;
that he is but the mark
of fate’s tremendous wrath,
an offering upon its altar;
driven by an unseen hand, man moves on,
groaning along life’s road,
at whose end, silently,
awaits the universal and eternal grave.
O unspeakable pain! O eternal misfortune,
inevitable and infinite!
Fatal contradiction, law of bitterness
decreed for our unhappy race!
If everywhere the wretched being
is bound by his own sad condition,
why this inward thirst that devours us
for love, life, and eternal bliss?
Why this yearning of a giant spirit
placed in a fleeting, paltry frame?
Why this incessant desire
for the eternal, immortal, divine,
if life is but the irrevocable dream of a moment,
a mist in the blue that gathers
and is scattered by the wind?
No! Armed in the sevenfold cuirass
of steadfast will, the strong soul
will await the blow with which death,
unfailing, strikes the unarmed breast—
O unhappy race of Adam,
ill-starred child of fate!—
and will meet it with the calm and greatness
of an unvanquished heart.
Like the captive warrior
from the enemy’s tribe,
poised to face a cruel death,
the bound Indian counts the brief hours left;
motionless, silent, and proud,
he seeks no pity from his foes;
he accepts his fate,
and meets their fury with disdain.
His mind returns to the past—
the whispering wind in the thicket
telling of his jungle, his hut, his beloved;
he lifts his bowed head with pride;
his eyes flash as he confronts
the savage chorus of his executioners;
and at last he lifts his voice in song—
A chant of death and victory,
triumphant and mournful;
the bloody chronicle of his battles;
the apotheosis of his glory;
the solace for his torment.
On his parched lips he breathes his last,
surrendering his body
to the blaze of the pyre.
So you, O noble and steadfast soul,
quickened with manly vigor,
must accept from fate
its unjust and barbarous sentence;
you will face the imminent visage of death
with stoic indifference;
and in dying, without weakness or falter,
you will sing your funeral song.
In it you will tell of your fleeting years—
the struggles, cares, and pains;
the doubts and disappointments;
the blows of fickle fortune;
the slow decay of age;
the sudden, eternal farewells
to those we love, tearing half our life away.
You will tell of the siege of unseen foes
in life’s fierce battle;
the lethal, irremediable poison
lurking in our cup;
the mounting anguish, the deep weariness
of our sorrowful earthly journey;
and with a bitter, scornful tone,
you will cast it toward the heavens.
Like ancient Prometheus,
guilty and suffering on the high rock,
who before Zeus utters no vile plea for pity—
his giant form chained,
his lips sealed in disdain—
but, sublime, his head held high,
proclaims his protest
before eternal justice.
Yes—let it be that, in dying,
the cry of the wretched creature
rise at least to pierce the skies,
echoing through the heights;
let it resound forever in the silent void,
its tone of bitterness vibrating—
until at last it fades, succumbs,
and falls to dust in an unremembered grave.
To Don Juan Valera
Numa Pompilio Llona (1832 - 1907) Ecuador
Translated by Richard Gabela
Source: Ecuadorian Literature
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