José Martí

(1853—1895)

Yo sé de Egipto y Nigricia,

Y de Persia y Xenophonte;

Y prefiero la caricia

Del aire fresco del monte.

Yo sé de las historias viejas

Del hombre y de sus rencillas;

Y prefiero las abejas

Volando en las campanillas.

Yo sé del canto del viento

En las ramas vocingleras:

Nadie me diga que miento,

Que lo prefiero de veras.

Yo sé de un gamo aterrado

Que vuelve al redil, y expira,

Y de un corazón cansado

Que muere oscuro y sin ira.

Odio la máscara y vicio

Del corredor de mi hotel:

Me vuelvo al manso bullicio

De mi monte de laurel.

Con los pobres de la tierra

Quiero yo mi suerte echar:

El arroyo de la sierra

Me complace más que el mar.

Denle al vano el oro tierno

Que arde y brilla en el crisol:

A mí denme el bosque eterno

Cuando rompe en él el Sol.

Yo he visto el oro hecho tierra

Barbullendo en la redoma:

Prefiero estar en la sierra

Cuando vuela una paloma.

Busca el obispo de España

Pilares para su altar;

¡En mi templo, en la montaña,

El álamo es el pilar!

Y la alfombra es puro helecho,

Y los muros abedul,

Y la luz viene del techo,

Del techo de cielo azul.

El obispo, por la noche,

Sale, despacio, a cantar:

Monta, callado, en su coche,

Que es la piña de un pinar.

Las jacas de su carroza

Son dos pájaros azules:

Y canta el aire y retoza,

Y cantan los abedules.

Duermo en mi cama de roca

Mi sueño dulce y profundo:

Roza una abeja mi boca

Y crece en mi cuerpo el mundo.

Brillan las grandes molduras

Al fuego de la mañana

Que tiñe las colgaduras

De rosa, violeta y grana.

El clarín, solo en el monte,

Canta al primer arrebol:

La gasa del horizonte

Prende, de un aliento, el Sol.

¡Díganle al obispo ciego,

Al viejo obispo de España

Que venga, que venga luego,

A mi templo, a la montaña!

simple verses (1891)

by José Martí

(1853-1895)

I know of Egypt and Niger,

And of Persia and Xenophon, no less,

But more than these I prefer

The fresh mountain air´s caress.

I know of the ancient histories

Of man and his struggles for power,

But I prefer the buzzing bees

That hover round the bellflower.

I know the sound the wind made

When through the boughs it was flying:

Let no one tell me I’m lying,

There is no song as well played.

I know of a frightened fawn

That seeks the fold, to expires,

And of a heart weary-worn

That dies hidden without ire.

The pretense and vice I spurn

Of the hallway of my inn:

To my laurel hill I turn

Preferring its gentle din.

With the earth´s poor everywhere,

I shall cast my lot: to me

Far more contentment is there

In mountain brook than in sea.

To the vain the gold that´s softest

In crucible burning bright,

Give me the eternal forest

When the sun firts shines its light.

I have seen gold to dross change

As the bubbling test tube roars;

I prefer the mountain range,

While a dove above it soars.

The sightless bishop of Spain

Wants pillars to hold his altar,

In my temple, on the mountain,

My pillars are made of poplar!

Of purest fern are the carpets

And the walls are of birch tree,

And a brilliant light it gets,

From a sky-blue canopy.

At night the bishop is gone

To sing his heart out in praise,

He mounts quietly his chaise,

Which is made of a pinecone.

The tiny steeds that pull his coach

Are two bluebirds taking wing;

The birch trees ring at his approach,

With the joyful airs the sing.

On a bed of stone I lay me.

Dreaming dreams sweet and profound,

At my mouth a bee flies round

And the world grows in my body.

Brilliant are the mossy moldings

As the fire of morn grows,

Dyed like the richest wall hangings,

In violet, scarlet and rose.

The songbird´s notes, in hills alone,

Warn of the first red clouds to show,

And the sun with just one blow,

Burns the gauze off the horizon.

Go tell the sightless prelate,

The aged bishop of Spain,

That I his visit await,

To my temple, to the mountain!