It hits me, some days, an overwhelming urge, a political desire
César Vallejo--translation
It hits me, some days, an overwhelming urge, a political
desire to kiss the face of affection on both cheeks,
and it hits me from far-away this demonstrative
desire, this other desire to love, by scale or force,
those who hate me, those who rip their paper to shreds, the little boy,
the woman who cries for the man who used to cry,
the wine king, the water slave,
those who conceal themselves in their wrath,
those who sweat, who walk on by, who dust off their personhood on my soul.
And I want, therefore, to help fix
the braid of those who speak to me; the soldier, his hair;
the light of the large man; the little one, his greatness.
I want to straightaway iron
a handkerchief for those who cannot cry,
and, when I am sad or joy aches,
I want to mend the children and the geniuses.
I want to help the good to be just a little naughty
and I find I must sit
on the righthand side of the lefty, and answer the mute,
trying to be useful
in all that I can, and I also very much want
to wash the feet of the lame,
and help my one-eyed neighbor fall asleep.
Oh desire, this one, mine, this one, the worldwide,
interhuman and parochial, project!
It fits me just right, comes to me
from the very foundations, from the public groin,
and, coming from far-off, I get the urge to kiss
the scarf of the songbird,
and whoever suffers, to kiss him on his frying pan,
the deaf, on their brainy rumor, undaunted;
whoever gives me whatever I have forgotten in my breast,
on their Dante, on their Chaplin, on their shoulders.
I want, in the end,
when I am on the celebrated edge of violence
or when my chest is full of heart, I would want
to help whoever smiles to laugh,
to place a little bird right on the back of the wicked man’s neck,
to care for the sick by pissing them off,
to buy off the seller,
to help the bullfighter make his kill—terrible thing—
and I would like to be good
to myself in all things.
Me viene, hay días, una gana ubérrima, política,
de querer, de besar al cariño en sus dos rostros,
y me viene de lejos un querer
demostrativo, otro querer amar, de grado o fuerza,
al que me odia, al que rasga su papel, al muchachito,
a la que llora por el que lloraba,
al rey del vino, al esclavo del agua,
al que ocultóse en su ira,
al que suda, al que pasa, al que sacude su persona en mi alma.
Y quiero, por lo tanto, acomodarle
al que me habla, su trenza; sus cabellos, al soldado;
su luz, al grande; su grandeza, al chico.
Quiero planchar directamente
un pañuelo al que no puede llorar
y, cuando estoy triste o me duele la dicha,
remendar a los niños y a los genios.
Quiero ayudar al bueno a ser su poquillo de malo
y me urge estar sentado
a la diestra del zurdo, y responder al mundo,
tratando de serle útil en
lo que puedo, y también quiero muchísimo
lavarle al cojo el pie,
y ayudarle a dormir al tuerto próximo.
¡Ah querer, éste, el mío, éste, el mundial,
interhumano y parroquial, proyecto!
Me viene a pelo
desde el cimiento, desde la ingle pública,
y, viniendo de lejos, da ganas de besarle
la bufanda al cantor,
y al que sufre, besarle en su sartén,
al sordo, en su rumor craneano, impávido;
al que me da lo que olvidé en mi seno,
en su Dante, en su Chaplin, en sus hombros.
Quiero, para terminar,
cuando estoy al borde célebre de la violencia
o lleno de pecho el corazón, querría
ayudar a reír al que sonríe,
ponerle un pajarillo al malvado en plena nuca,
cuidar a los enfermos enfadándolos,
comprarle al vendedor,
ayudar a matar al matador ?cosa terrible?
y quisiera yo ser bueno conmigo
en todo.