«Un prisionero en el calabozo»: Anne Brontë; poema y análisis.
Un prisionero en el calabozo (A Prisoner in a Dungeon Deep) es un poema de la escritora inglesa Anne Brontë (1820-1849), publicado en la antología de 1846: Poemas de Currer, Ellis y Acton Bell (Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell), obra que incluye poemas de sus tres hermanos: Charlotte Brontë y Emily Brontë y Branwell Brontë.
Un prisionero en el calabozo se encuentra entre los mejores poemas de Anne Brontë de ese período.
Un prisionero en el calabozo.
A Prisoner in a Dungeon Deep, Anne Brontë (1820-1849)
Un prisionero en el calabozo profundo
Se sentó en silenciosa reflexión;
La cabeza descansaba en su mano,
Su codo sobre la rodilla.
Arrojó sus pensamientos hacia el futuro
¿O hacia atrás fueron lanzados?
¿La libertad es morir hoy de pena
O afligirse por el pasado?
Tanto tiempo ha vivido en cautiverio,
Solo en la penumbra de la mazmorra,
Que ya no posee pena ni esperanza,
Ha dejado de afligirse por su destino.
Él no suspira por la luz del día,
Ni añora su vieja libertad;
Esas ideas han dejado de atormentar
Su frente ardiente.
Perdido en un laberinto de pensamientos errantes
Él se sienta inmóvil;
Aquella postura y aquella mirada proclaman
El estupor de la desesperación.
Pero no siempre ese humor
Prevaleció sobre el enojo;
Había algo en su ojo
Que contaba otro cuento.
No hablaba de la razón perdida,
No era similar a la locura;
Era un fuego de parpadeo irregular,
Una luz extraña e incierta.
Y por decir, estos últimos años trajeron
Extrañas fantasías de tanto en tanto,
Llenando su celda con escenas de vida
Y las formas de hombres vivos.
Una mente que no cesa de pensar
¿Qué necesidades puede atesorar?
El letargo puede traer alivio al dolor
Y locura a la desesperación.
Tales escenas insólitas, tales formas que revolotean
Como jirones de un sueño febril:
¿Qué pasaría si aumentan
Y la razón decae lo suficiente?
Pero escucha, ¿qué sonidos han golpeado su oído?
Voces humanas parecen;
Dos han entrado en su celda;
¿También ésto puede ser un sueño?
Orlando, oye nuestras alegres noticias:
¡Venganza y libertad!
Tus enemigos están muertos,
y hemos venido a darte libertad.
Entonces habló el mayor de los dos,
Y en los ojos del cautivo
Buscó el éxtasis que brilla
Pero sólo sorpresa encontró.
¡Mis enemigos están muertos!
Debe ser que la humanidad entera ha muerto.
Ya que todos eran mis enemigos,
Pues amigos nunca tuve.
A prisoner in a dungeon deep
Sat musing silently;
His head was rested on his hand,
His elbow on his knee.
Turned he his thoughts to future times
Or are they backward cast?
For freedom is he pining now
Or mourning for the past?
No, he has lived so long enthralled
Alone in dungeon gloom
That he has lost regret and hope,
Has ceased to mourn his doom.
He pines not for the light of day
Nor sighs for freedom now;
Such weary thoughts have ceased at length
To rack his burning brow.
Lost in a maze of wandering thoughts
He sits unmoving there;
That posture and that look proclaim
The stupor of despair.
Yet not for ever did that mood
Of sullen calm prevail;
There was a something in his eye
That told another tale.
It did not speak of reason gone,
It was not madness quite;
It was a fitful flickering fire,
A strange uncertain light.
And sooth to say, these latter years
Strange fancies now and then
Had filled his cell with scenes of life
And forms of living men.
A mind that cannot cease to think
Why needs he cherish there?
Torpor may bring relief to pain
And madness to despair.
Such wildering scenes, such flitting shapes
As feverish dreams display:
What if those fancies still increase
And reason quite decay?
But hark, what sounds have struck his ear;
Voices of men they seem;
And two have entered now his cell;
Can this too be a dream?
'Orlando, hear our joyful news:
Revenge and liberty!
Your foes are dead, and we are come
At last to set you free.'
So spoke the elder of the two,
And in the captive's eyes
He looked for gleaming ecstasy
But only found surprise.
'My foes are dead! It must be then
That all mankind are gone.
For they were all my deadly foes
And friends I had not one.'
Anne Brontë (1820-1849)
Sat musing silently;
His head was rested on his hand,
His elbow on his knee.
Turned he his thoughts to future times
Or are they backward cast?
For freedom is he pining now
Or mourning for the past?
No, he has lived so long enthralled
Alone in dungeon gloom
That he has lost regret and hope,
Has ceased to mourn his doom.
He pines not for the light of day
Nor sighs for freedom now;
Such weary thoughts have ceased at length
To rack his burning brow.
Lost in a maze of wandering thoughts
He sits unmoving there;
That posture and that look proclaim
The stupor of despair.
Yet not for ever did that mood
Of sullen calm prevail;
There was a something in his eye
That told another tale.
It did not speak of reason gone,
It was not madness quite;
It was a fitful flickering fire,
A strange uncertain light.
And sooth to say, these latter years
Strange fancies now and then
Had filled his cell with scenes of life
And forms of living men.
A mind that cannot cease to think
Why needs he cherish there?
Torpor may bring relief to pain
And madness to despair.
Such wildering scenes, such flitting shapes
As feverish dreams display:
What if those fancies still increase
And reason quite decay?
But hark, what sounds have struck his ear;
Voices of men they seem;
And two have entered now his cell;
Can this too be a dream?
'Orlando, hear our joyful news:
Revenge and liberty!
Your foes are dead, and we are come
At last to set you free.'
So spoke the elder of the two,
And in the captive's eyes
He looked for gleaming ecstasy
But only found surprise.
'My foes are dead! It must be then
That all mankind are gone.
For they were all my deadly foes
And friends I had not one.'
Anne Brontë (1820-1849)
Poemas de Anne Brontë. I Poemas góticos.
El análisis, resumen y traducción al español del poema de Anne Brontë: Un prisionero en el calabozo (A Prisoner in a Dungeon Deep) fueron realizados por El Espejo Gótico. Para su reproducción escríbenos a elespejogotico@gmail.com
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