Está terminando el día
desciende la noche;
la ciénaga está congelada,
muerto el río.
A través de las nubes como ceniza
el rojo sol parpadea
sobre las ventanas de la aldea
que rojo brillan.
Recomienza la nieve;
las cercas enterradas
ya no marcan
el camino en la llanura;
Mientras que por los prados,
como sombras temerosas,
lentamente pasa
un cortejo funerario.
Repican las campanas,
y cada sentimiento
dentro de mí responde
a la sentencia desolada;
Las sombras nos siguen,
y mi corazón se lamenta
con un tañido fatal,
como campanas del funeral.
(Afternoon in February
The day is ending,
The night is descending;
The marsh is frozen,
The river dead.
Through clouds like ashes
The red sun flashes
On village windows
That glimmer red.
The snow recommences;
The buried fences
Mark no longer
The road o'er the plain;
While through the meadows,
Like fearful shadows,
Slowly passes
A funeral train.
The bell is pealing,
And every feeling
Within me responds
To the dismal knell;
Shadows are trailing,
My heart is bewailing
And tolling within
Like a funeral bell.)
The night is descending;
The marsh is frozen,
The river dead.
Through clouds like ashes
The red sun flashes
On village windows
That glimmer red.
The snow recommences;
The buried fences
Mark no longer
The road o'er the plain;
While through the meadows,
Like fearful shadows,
Slowly passes
A funeral train.
The bell is pealing,
And every feeling
Within me responds
To the dismal knell;
Shadows are trailing,
My heart is bewailing
And tolling within
Like a funeral bell.)
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Estados Unidos, 1807-1882).
(Traducido del inglés por Jules Etienne).
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