Translation by Lorena Espinoza
A Dog Has Died
My dog has died.
I buried him in the garden
next to an old, oxidized machine.
Someday he will join me
Right here in this spot.
Now he has gone with his fur,
His bad etiquette, and his cool nose
and I, the materialist that does not believe
in the heavenly sky promised
to no human,
Not to this dog, nor for all dog kind.
I believe in paradise, yes, I believe in a paradise,
One I will never enter, but where
he will be waiting for me
rotating his propeller-like tail,
so that I, upon arriving, will have a friend.
Oh I will not tell of my sadness,
for not having my companion anymore,
because he was never my servant.
His friendship towards me was reminiscent of a hedgehog
that protects his autonomy,
It was the friendship of an independent star
without more intimacy than was appropriate,
without exaggerations:
he did not climb up on my clothes
leaving his fur nor germs on me,
he did not rub up against my leg
like other sex-obsessed dogs.
No, my dog looked at me
giving me the attention I need,
the necessary attention
to make a vain man comprehend,
that his existence as a dog,
with eyes purer than mine,
was losing my time, yet he looked at me
with a gaze reserved only for me
all of his sweet, furry life,
his silent life,
Always by my side, without ever bothering me,
without expectations of me.
Oh, how many times I wished I, too, had a tail,
While walking with him by the seashore,
in the Isla Negra winter,
in the grand solitude: the winter birds
Taking over the sky above us,
and my fluffy dog jumping, his wavering fur
Full of marine voltage
My dog, the wanderer, sniffing away
While flying his golden tail like a kite
Face to face with the Ocean and its foam.
Chipper, chipper, chipper.
Happy like only a dog knows how to be,
with only the absolutism of their shameless nature.
There are no goodbyes for my dog that has died,
and there is not, nor was there ever, a single lie between us.
Now my dog has gone, and I buried him, and that was all.
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Original poem by Pablo Neruda
Un Perro Ha Muerto
Mi perro ha muerto.
Lo enterré en el jardín
junto a una vieja máquina oxidada.
Allí, no más abajo,
ni más arriba,
se juntará conmigo alguna vez.
Ahora él ya se fue con su pelaje,
su mala educación, su nariz fría.
Y yo, materialista que no cree
en el celeste cielo prometido
para ningún humano,
para este perro o para todo perro
creo en el cielo, sí, creo en un cielo
donde yo no entraré, pero él me espera
ondulando su cola de abanico
para que yo al llegar tenga amistades.
Ay no diré la tristeza en la tierra
de no tenerlo más por compañero,
que para mí jamás fue un servidor.
Tuvo hacia mí la amistad de un erizo
que conservaba su soberanía,
la amistad de una estrella independiente
sin más intimidad que la precisa,
sin exageraciones:
no se trepaba sobre mi vestuario
llenándome de pelos o de sarna,
no se frotaba contra mi rodilla
como otros perros obsesos sexuales.
No, mi perro me miraba
dándome la atención que necesito,
la atención necesaria
para hacer comprender a un vanidoso
que siendo perro él,
con esos ojos, más puros que los míos,
perdía el tiempo, pero me miraba
con la mirada que me reservó
toda su dulce, su peluda vida,
su silenciosa vida,
cerca de mí, sin molestarme nunca,
y sin pedirme nada.
Ay cuántas veces quise tener cola
andando junto a él por las orillas
del mar, en el invierno de Isla Negra,
en la gran soledad: arriba el aire
traspasado de pájaros glaciales,
y mi perro brincando, hirsuto, lleno
de voltaje marino en movimiento:
mi perro vagabundo y olfatorio
enarbolando su cola dorada
frente a frente al Océano y su espuma.
Alegre, alegre, alegre
como los perros saben ser felices,
sin nada más, con el absolutismo
de la naturaleza descarada.
No hay adiós a mi perro que se ha muerto.
Y no hay ni hubo mentira entre nosotros.
Ya se fue y lo enterré, y eso era todo.
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Lorena Espinoza
Lorena Espinoza is a second year student at UC San Diego majoring in Literature/Writing. When she is not writing for her coursework, she is writing for own enjoyment. She hopes to work in publishing and/or editing after college.
Pablo Neruda
Pablo Neruda, the winner of a Nobel Prize for Literature, was a Chilean poet who actively wrote works of literature since the young age of thirteen. Neruda is recognized for many famous works such as his collection Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair.
