When lightning struck, the elm was old already.
Its mighty bulk has rotted through, and yet
spring rain and sunshine have revived the ancient body;
a few green leaves begin to sprout.
Its bark, bleached white, is stained with yellow mosses.
Worms consume the crumbling trunk.
The elm stands while a century elapses,
lapped by the Duero’s curving bank.
No nightingales will nest here now. They favour
the rustling poplars which patrol
the roads and rivers. Other visitors take over:
ants climb up the tree’s dry bole
in single file, an army on the march;
spiders weave grey webs within, and wait and watch.
Elm of the Duero:
before the woodman swings his axe
and, after hours of his attacks,
you topple at the final, fatal stroke;
before the joiner comes to choose
the bits of you he still can use
to make a bell-tower, axle or a yoke;
before you go for firewood
in some poor hovel by the road
and blaze next winter brightly on its hearth;
before a whirlwind lays you low,
uprooted, or the gales which blow
from snow-capped mountains bring you to the earth;
before you take the river’s course
through valleys and ravines which force
your great dead weight towards the open sea;
I will write one note of praise —
Your greening branch remains a thing of grace —
and keep it in my wallet. You’re in leaf:
my heart, like yours, inclines toward the light, to life,
in hope that, as it has for you, old tree,
this spring may work a miracle for me.
Listen to this translation — read by Peter Hetherington
A un olmo seco — Antonio Machado
Al olmo viejo, hendido por el rayo
y en su mitad podrido,
con las lluvias de abril y el sol de mayo
algunas hojas verdes le han salido.
¡El olmo centenario en la colina
que lame el Duero! Un musgo amarillento
le mancha la corteza blanquecina
al tronco carcomido y polvoriento.
No será, cual los álamos cantores
que guardan el camino y la ribera,
habitado de pardos ruiseñores.
Ejército de hormigas en hilera
va trepando por él, y en sus entrañas
urden sus telas grises las arañas.
Antes que te derribe, olmo del Duero,
con su hacha el leñador, y el carpintero
te convierta en melena de campana,
lanza de carro o yugo de carreta;
antes que rojo en el hogar, mañana,
ardas en alguna mísera caseta,
al borde de un camino;
antes que te descuaje un torbellino
y tronche el soplo de las sierras blancas;
antes que el río hasta la mar te empuje
por valles y barrancas,
olmo, quiero anotar en mi cartera
la gracia de tu rama verdecida.
Mi corazón espera
también, hacia la luz y hacia la vida,
otro milagro de la primavera.
