Rango Finito

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All Watched Over By Machines Of Loving Grace, by Richard Brautigan

I like to think (and
the sooner the better!)
of a cybernetic meadow
where mammals and computers
live together in mutually
programming harmony
like pure water
touching clear sky.

I like to think
(right now, please!)
of a cybernetic forest
filled with pines and electronics
where deer stroll peacefully
past computers
as if they were flowers
with spinning blossoms.

I like to think
(it has to be!)
of a cybernetic ecology
where we are free of our labors
and joined back to nature,
returned to our mammal
brothers and sisters,
and all watched over
by machines of loving grace.

Una traducción express al español (recibo correcciones y sugerencias):

Me gusta pensar (¡y
que sea pronto!)
en un prado cibernético
donde mamíferos y máquinas
vivan juntos en mutua
armonía programada
como agua pura
al contacto con el cielo.

Me gusta pensar
(¡ahora mismo, por favor!)
en un bosque cibernético
lleno de pinos y chips
donde los ciervos paséen en paz
entre computadores
como si fueran flores
con pétalos giratorios.

Me gusta pensar
(¡tiene que pasar!)
en una ecología cibernética
donde, libres de trabajos,
reencontramos la naturaleza,
de vuelta con nuestros
hermanos y hermanas mamíferos,
todos custodiados
por máquinas de afectuosa gracia.

Anthem for Doomed Youth, by Wilfred Owen

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries for them; no prayers nor bells,
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls’ brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

My child wafts peace, another poem by Yehuda Amichai

My child wafts peace.
When I lean over him,
It is not just the smell of soap.

All the people were children wafting peace.
(And in the whole land, not even one
Millstone remained that still turned).

Oh, the land torn like clothes
That can’t be mended.
Hard, lonely fathers even in the cave of the Makhpela
Childless silence.

My child wafts peace.
His mother’s womb promised him
What God cannot
Promise us.

(Translated by Benjamin and Barbara Harshav)

Yad Mordechai, a poem by Yehuda Amichai

Those who fell here
still look out the windows like sick children
who are not allowed outside to play.
And on the hillside, the battle is reenacted
for the benefit of hikers and tourists. Soldiers of thin sheet iron
rise and fall and rise again. Sheet iron dead and a sheet iron life
and the voices all—sheet iron. And the resurrection of the dead,
sheet iron that clangs and clangs.

And I said to myself: Everyone is attached to his own lament
as to a parachute. Slowly he descends and slowly hovers
until he touches the hard place.

(Translated by Chana Bloch and Chana Kronfeld)