Translated to English by Richard Gabela on April 5, 2024, from the original work “Minuto muerto” by Gerardo Chiriboga (1895-1966) of Riobamba, Ecuador. I have translated the title of the poem as “Dead Minute.”
DEAD MINUTE
Silence made its entrance as a doctor would.
It crept in, whispering its morbid secrets.
It took the pulse of my voice
and on its centuries-old clock
measured the edges of my nerves.
In the dark crossroads of my mind,
memory let out a cry
and there arrived, in a sweaty gallop,
the ghosts of dead days,
stumbling over the knots in my tears,
preserved in the camphor of my dreams.
The mirror, startled, scowled.
The owls of uncertainty, tumbling into shadows,
and flailing, collided;
and riding astride time’s broom,
insomnia faded away.
A star spoke, and the silence scattered.
Memories killed themselves against the ceiling
and the mice gnawing at my inner turmoil
scampered away, defeated.
A match flared with a hollow burst
and from the sharp cry of my voice
the dead minute lingered in the air.
Alone I stood
and at the base of the candlestick,
laying bare, laughed an open book.
Translator’s Note: This English translation of ‘Minuto muerto’ by Gerardo Chiriboga, an Ecuadorian poet and journalist, seeks to preserve the rich imagery and emotional depth of the original Spanish. Born in Riobamba in 1895 and passing in Quito in 1966, Chiriboga was known for his contributions to Ecuadorian literature and history, notably through his collection ‘Minuto muerto, poemas’ (1934). The poem ‘Minuto muerto’ delves into themes of memory, loss, and the passage of time, employing a vividly introspective and evocative style. This translation strives for accuracy and aims to capture the essence of Chiriboga’s poetic voice, illuminating the complex interplay of despair and reflection that defines the work.
Original Spanish Version
MINUTO MUERTO
El silencio llegó cual llega un médico.
Venía zapatillando sus mórbidos secretos.
Tomó el pulso de mi voz
y en su reloj de siglos
midió las aristas de mis nervios.
En las encrucijadas siniestras del cerebro
lanzó alaridos el recuerdo
y vinieron, galopando, sudorosos,
los fantasmas de los días muertos,
tropezando en los nudos de las lágrimas,
disecados en alcanfor de ensueño.
El espejo, asustado, frunció el ceño.
Cayeron a manotazos en las sombras,
atropellándose, los buhos de lo incierto;
y cabalgando la escoba de las horas
pasó el insomnio, cayéndose de sueño.
Habló un lucero y se espantó el silencio.
Contra el techo se mataron los recuerdos
y huyeron derrotados los ratones
que degollaban mi desasosiego.
Rugió un fósforo con fogonazo hueco
y de feroz puñalada de mi voz
en el aire quedó el minuto muerto.
Estaba sólo
y al pie del candelero
se reía, desnudo, un libro abierto.