Translated to English by Richard Gabela on April 15, 2024, from the original work “Canto a la muerte” by Enrique Segovia (1901-1967) of Guayaquil, Ecuador. I have translated the title of the poem as “Ode to Death.”
Ode to Death
Death has fascinated me
with its azure glances.
Death has enveloped me
in its diaphanous veils.
Death has kissed me
with its amaranth lips.
Oh, what wondrous allure
the allure of Death!
Removed from things,
deep in its vague dream,
I nourish myself like a mage
on the poison of my roses.
Subtle and pure wisdom
taught to me by the sorceress.
To knead our bitterness
like a piece of wax.
Who would say, who would say,
brother in identical days,
that the lethal ulcers,
the agony of the journey,
everything, everything, finds harmony
in her hands, so much so
that we bless the mud
for it harbors the ashes.
And it is decreed—as the welcoming
earth cautions:
man shall love life
out of a longing for Death.
And it is she, unhidden,
who in a softened voice
responds to our angst
with two pale syllables: nothing.
Men, men already weary,
riddled with tumors of hope,
thinkers tormented
by elusive knowledge:
let destiny proceed…
And master the icy dream:
abstraction of the uncreated,
anesthesia of Death.
What dream of a better end
than to suddenly erase oneself?
Not to reflect on the forehead
the torture of the boundary!
Let us sing, let us sing creatures,
siblings of nightmares,
in psalms and misereres
the future of the clay.
The substantial and pure peace
that lies within the creature,
The vertigo of creation,
the fate of the earth.
To the breath that pushes us,
one feels the wound, slight…
Blessed with frost
the hand that crushes us.
Behold, after a millennium,
man has yet to quench
his thirst in the intoxications
of the World and the Unknown.
Behold, a hundred centuries have passed,
and the nectars and wines
from divine grapevines
have not sated human thirst.
And the sharp
erosion of the eternal grew.
And deeper was the doubt,
realization of hell.
Death has fascinated me.
At last, I have understood her.
I have laid down as if in a nest
in the arms of Death.
And my wound slumbers…
And the ignited thought
is like a candle burning
that slowly extinguishes…
By the miracle of that chill,
the flame is extinguished.
And without thinking I say: Nothing
—the crown of my ennui.
Death hasfascinated me
with its azure glances.
Death has enveloped me
in its diaphanous veils.
Death has kissed me
with its amaranth lips.
Oh, what wondrous allure
the allure of Death!
Translator’s Note: Enrique Segovia, a figure marked by personal tumult and addiction, used his poetry as a refuge and a means of articulation, distilling his life’s vicissitudes into poignant, often stark lyrical beauty. I chose to translate “Canto a la muerte,” specifically for its profound rumination on mortality and the human condition—a theme that resonated deeply with Segovia’s own turbulent existence. Known for wandering the streets of Guayaquil, barefoot and in rags, Segovia once commanded respect as an intelligent, well-mannered individual from a respectable background. His transformation into the “romantic beggar” who recited verses for drinks in bars, as vividly described in José Ayala Cabanilla’s 1939 article in “Social Cine,” highlights a tragic descent that only enriches the haunting allure of his work.
Original Spanish Version
Canto a la muerte
Me ha fascinado la muerte
con sus miradas azules.
Me ha arrebujado la muerte
entre sus diáfanos tules.
Me ha dado un beso la muerte
con su labio de amaranto.
¡Oh, qué milagroso encanto
el encanto de la muerte!
Alejado de las cosas,
profundo en su sueño vago,
yo me nutro como un mago
del veneno de mis rosas.
Sapiencia sutil y pura
que me enseñó la hechicera.
Amasar nuestra amargura
como un pedazo de cera.
Quién dijera, quién dijera,
hermano de días iguales,
que las úlceras fatales,
el dolor de la carrera,
todo, todo, se armoniza
en sus manos, de tal modo
que bendecimos el lodo
porque encierra la ceniza.
Y está escrito –tal lo advierte
la tierra que nos convida:
el hombre amará la vida
por ambición de la Muerte.
Y es ella, que no se esconde,
la que en lengua amortiguada
a nuestra ansiedad responde
dos blancas sílabas: nada.
Hombres, hombres ya cansados,
cancerosos de esperanza,
pensadores torturados
por ciencia que no se alcanza:
dejad que siga la suerte…
Y aprended el sueño helado:
abstracción de lo increado,
anestesia de la Muerte
¡qué sueño de mejor fin
que borrarse de repente?
¡No reflejar en la frente
la tortura del confín!
Cantemos, cantemos seres,
hermanos de pesadilla,
en salmos y misereres
el futuro de la arcilla.
La paz substancial y pura
que en la criatura se encierra
El vértigo de la hechura,
el destino de la tierra.
Al soplo que nos empuja,
se palpa la llaga, leve…
Está bendita de nieve
la mano que nos estruja.
Hé aquí que tras mil edades
aún el hombre no ha saciado
su sed en ]as ebriedades
del Mundo y de lo Ignorado.
Hé aquí, cien siglos pasaron
y los néctares y vinos
de los pámpanos divinos
la humana sed no calmaron.
Y se acrecentó la aguda
escoriación de lo eterno.
Y fue más honda la duda,
realización del infierno.
Me ha fascinado la Muerte.
Al fin, yo la he comprendido.
Me he echado como en un nido
en los brazos de la Muerte.
Y se adormece mi llaga…
Y el pensamiento encendido
es como un cirio encendido
que poco a poco se apaga…
Por milagro de aquel frío,
se extingue la llamarada.
Y sin pensar digo: Nada
–la corona de mi hastío.
Me ha fascinado la Muerte
con sus miradas azules.
Me ha arrebujado la Muerte
entre sus diáfanos tules.
Me ha dado un beso la Muerte
con su labio de amaranto.
¡Oh, qué milagroso encanto
el encanto de la Muerte!