Mort D'un Heroi Romàntic - Manel перевод на английский

Mort D'un Heroi Romàntic

Un cosí de ma mare tenia
Un bufet pròsper a la ciutat.
Fa molts anys van enviar-m'hi
Com a jove passant d'advocat.
Vaig trobar una cambra senzilla
—Una taula, un llit, un mirall.
Hi arribava que era nit tancada,
Que en alguna taverna del centre
S'havia fet tard.
Al replà, la senyora Manresa
Passava les hores cosint
Però aquell dia semblava alterada,
Va apropar-se, nerviosa, i va dir:
"Disculpi, no sap com odio
Venir a demanar-li favors,
L'inquilí del tercer aquest migdia
Estava com boig i ara pico i no respon".
A la llum d'un immens canelobre,
Vaig obrir-me pas en la foscor.
Avançant entre ombres de mobles,
Repassava les habitacions.
Vaig sentir uns gossos que somicaven,
Vaig seguir la pista dels plors
I, senyors, com sabran vaig trobar-me
Un gran heroi romàntic mort al menjador.
I tenia una nota ridícula arrugada entre les mans
Plena de dits que jugaven amb trenes,
De postes de sol i donzelles a lloms de cavalls.
Poc després l'inspector s'apuntava
El contacte d'un familiar,
Un germà que vivia a la costa
Amb qui celebraven els sants.
Van tancar-li els dos ulls amb tendresa,
Van tapar-lo amb un llençol blanc.
En silenci tothom glopejava
El te verd que havia escalfat la mestra del quart.
Un mossèn va pregar un Pare Nostre
Amb un fil de veu mort de son.
Al costat, vam reunir-nos els homes
Per mirar de treure el cos.
I estirant d'uns turmells sense vida
Vaig sortir d'aquell menjador.
La senyora Manresa patia
"Per l'amor de Déu, vigilin amb els cops".
Al carrer la carrossa esperava,
El cotxer es distreia observant
Uns soldats de permís que cantaven
Sota la llum dels fanals.
Vam comptar fins a tres per fer força
Per pujar el cadàver a dalt.
Un vent fred va gelar l'aire,
Un fuet petant amb mandra
Va fer arrencar els cavalls.
I seguia amb la nota ridícula
Arrugada entre les mans
Plena de crits en el buit, de desigs violents,
De tempestes que enterren vaixells dins el mar.
Plena de dones rient, d'ulls sanguinolents,
De bellesa que no deixa espai per pensar.
Plena de muses ferides per sempre per claus rovellats
En cançons de poetes vulgars.
Plena de salts infinits on t'esperen immòbils,
Per si vols passar-hi, uns gimnastes de glaç.
Plena de bèsties bavoses a punt d'enfrontar-se
En combat desigual amb els presos cristians.
Plena de nens espantats que miren si arriben
Els pares sota la pluja constant.
Plena de joves erectes que arramben pubilles guarnides
Pel ball del diumenge de rams.
Plena de braços que s'alcen i paren un taxi
Sortint de sopars amb amics que se'n van.
Plena de creu-me, ho intento,
Però a estones sospito, morena,
Que això no s'aturarà mai.

Death of a Romantic Hero

A cousin of my mother had
A prosperous law firm in the city.
Many years ago they sent me there
As a young aspiring lawyer.
I found a simple room
—A table, a bed, a mirror.
I arrived late at night,
Having lingered too long
In some tavern downtown.
On the landing, Mrs. Manresa
Spent her hours sewing
But that day she seemed upset,
She approached, nervous, and said:
"Excuse me, you don't know how I hate
To come asking for favors,
The tenant on the third floor this afternoon
Was acting crazy and now I knock and he doesn't answer".
In the light of a huge chandelier,
I made my way through the darkness.
Moving among the shadows of furniture,
I searched the rooms.
I heard dogs dreaming,
I followed the trail of tears
And, gentlemen, as you will know, I found
A great romantic hero dead in the dining room.
And he had a ridiculous note crumpled in his hands
Full of fingers playing with braids,
Of sunsets and damsels on horseback.
Shortly after, the inspector was noting down
The contact of a relative,
A brother who lived on the coast
With whom they celebrated saints' days.
They closed his eyes with tenderness,
They covered him with a white sheet.
In silence everyone sipped
The green tea that the fourth-floor teacher had heated.
A priest prayed an Our Father
With a voice threadbare from sleep.
Beside him, we men gathered
To try to remove the body.
And pulling on lifeless ankles
I left that dining room.
Mrs. Manresa was suffering
"For the love of God, be careful with the bumps".
In the street the carriage awaited,
The coachman distracted himself by observing
Some soldiers on leave who were singing
Under the light of the streetlamps.
We counted to three to gather strength
To lift the corpse up.
A cold wind chilled the air,
A whip cracking lazily
Made the horses start.
And he still had the ridiculous note
Crumpled in his hands
Full of screams into the void, of violent desires,
Of storms that bury ships in the sea.
Full of laughing women, of bloodshot eyes,
Of beauty that leaves no room for thought.
Full of muses forever wounded by rusty nails
In songs of vulgar poets.
Full of infinite leaps where ice gymnasts await you motionless,
In case you want to pass by.
Full of slimy beasts about to face
An unequal combat with Christian prisoners.
Full of frightened children watching to see if their parents arrive
Under the constant rain.
Full of upright young men who take pupils adorned
For the Palm Sunday dance.
Full of arms that rise and hail a taxi
Leaving dinners with friends who are leaving.
Full of believe me, I'm trying,
But sometimes I suspect, my dear,
That this will never stop.