They all know that I'm alive,
that I'm vicious; and they don't know
the December that follows from that January.
Well, on the day I was born,
God was sick.
There is an empty place
in my metaphysical shape
that no one can reach:
a cloister of silence
that spoke with the fire of its voice muffled.
On the day I was born,
God was sick.
Brother, listen to me, Listen...
oh, all right. Don't worry, I won't leave
without taking my Decembers along,
without leaving my Januaries behind.
Well, on the day I was born,
God was sick.
They all know that I'm alive,
that I chew my food...and they don't know
why harsh winds whistle in my poems,
the narrow uneasiness of a coffin,
wind untangled from the Sphinx
who holds the desert for routine questioning.
Yes, they all know...Well, they don't know
that the light gets skinny
and the darkness gets bloated
And they don't know that the Mystery joins things together...
that he is the hunchback
musical and sad who stands a little way off and foretells
the dazzling progression from the limits to the Limits.
On the day I was born,
God was sick,
gravely.
by Cesar Vallejo
tr. James Wright
Vollejo 는 페루에서 태어나 의학을 공부하다가 결국에는 문학으로 학위를 받았습니다. 1020년에 폭동의 주모자로 몰려서 4개월동안 형을 살았는데 정확한 죄목은 끝까지 미스테리로 남았다는군요. 1923년에 프랑스로 갔는데 공산주의자가 되었고, 약 10년쯤 후에 정치적 행보 때문에 아내와함께 추방당했다가 1932년 다시 입국을 허가받았습니다. 책의 표현을 따오자면 "Misterious intestinal ailment"로 인해서 1937 파리에서 사망하였습니다.
시를 느끼는데는 결국에는 자신의 감성이 가장 중요하겠지만 ...
그래도 약간의 배경지식이 있으면 좀더 작가의 생각에 가까이 갈 수 있지않을까...