Translated to English by Richard Gabela on April 15, 2024, from the original work “Ausencia” by José Alfredo Llerena (1912-1977) of Guayaquil, Ecuador. I have translated the title of the poem as “Absence.”
Absence
Mother dear: I constantly find myself counting your absence;
there is a train that, simultaneously, measures other absences
and whistles each morning from the same distance as my last dream.
This train carries you, dear mother,
with a bouquet of hydrangeas, wide eyes, and a handkerchief.
A train under clear skies where your gaze preserves the springtime of an orchard.
That train, through whose windows one can only imagine
the lungs of criminals as they flee prison.
There is a train whose windows, like nomadic peoples,
roam in search of a deity among the rocks and forests.
A train whose windows are unaware of the existence of islands.
A train that, without fail, whistles every morning.
The one you boarded one day, toward the year’s end,
to pray for your son’s health in a distant province;
he and I and the pillow
feel the weight of absence borne by travelers departing each dawn.
Mother dear: You must be in a lovely place,
adorned with chickens, tiny houses, and tilled soil.
There, God must appear as though He owns the only house with a window.
Every day, you surely visit the working ox to tell the time.
In your field, your gravest concerns are likely the ditch,
the memory of your son, and the barn’s roof.
I know that only the stream hears your words,
where you wish to wash away your son’s heavy nights.
But soon we’ll be reunited
because the windows of a train,
loaded with unsavory characters,
news of death, and merchants,
will know the way to bring you back to this place,
where the clock, the handkerchief, I, and the pillow weep
each morning.
Translator’s Notes: The choice to render José Alfredo Llerena’s “Absence” into English stemmed from its profound portrayal of separation and yearning, especially in the poignant context of a mother’s absence. Llerena, esteemed within Ecuadorian literary circles and renowned for his pivotal role in the modernist movement, masterfully entwines imagery and sentiment to evoke a profound sense of melancholy and nostalgia. Through “Absence,” Llerena skillfully navigates the intricacies of memory, delving into the enduring resonance of cherished individuals who remain emotionally proximate despite physical distance. The train serves as a central metaphor, symbolizing both the separation that takes loved ones away and the potential for their return.
Ausencia
Madrecita: todos los ratos hago la contabilidad de tu ausencia,
hay un tren que hace, al mismo tiempo, el cálculo de otras ausencias
y pita las mañanas a la misma distancia del último sueño;
hay un tren donde estás tú, madrecita,
con un racimo de hortensias, unos ojazos y un pañuelo.
Un tren de clima claro donde tus ojos guardan la primavera de un huerto.
Ese tren, ante cuyas ventanillas sólo es dable pensar
en los pulmones de los criminales que fugan de la cárcel.
Hay un tren cuyas ventanillas viven como los pueblos nómades,
buscando un dios entre las rocas y los bosques.
Un tren cuyas ventanillas desconocen la existencia de las islas.
Un tren, en fin, que pita todas las mañanas.
Aquel en que tú fuiste un día, casi a la cola del año
a rezar por la salud de tu hijo en una provincia lejana;
él y yo y la almohada
no podríamos vivir sin los viajeros que parten cada mañana.
Madrecita: Debes estar en un lugar muy bonito,
adornádo de gallinas, de casas chiquitas y de tierra sembrada.
Dios ha de parecer allí el dueño de la única casa con ventana.
Debes ir todos los días a consultar la hora al buey que trabaja.
Las cosas más graves de tu campo deben ser la acequia,
el recuerdo de tu hijo y el techo de la parva.
Ya sé que el arroyo es el único que escucha tu palabra
y donde quisieras lavar las noches pesadas de tu hijo.
Pero ya estaremos juntos
porque una ventanilla de tren,
cargada de golfos,
de defunciones y de comerciantes
sabrá traerte a este lugar
donde lloramos el reloj, el pañuelo, yo y la almohada
cada mañana.