Translated by students of Spanish 319: On Translating Cultures and Disciplines. Fall 2018.
Read by Hayley M. Griffiths
The landscape of my childhood is lost. It doesn’t exist.
New streets, new houses.
It is a place with one single memory and one single emotion.
There, I immersed a world: childhood, bugs, relatives and neighbors. The first winters and the game: slushing in the frost. The oven of a bakery and Narducho in the adjoining barren lot, who by way of shoes wore little wooden boards wrapped around his feet with strips of burlap and in his hand, for all uses, a tin jug. A small stamp of San Francis. Or innocent lad from the Russian epic.
The quiet lunatic, the local madman, in Santos Lugares, that does not exist either.
El paisaje de mi infancia está perdido. No existe.
Nuevo trazado de calles, nuevas casas.
Es un lugar de una sola memoria y una sola emoción.
Ahí, yo sumergí un mundo: la niñez, los bichos, los parientes y vecinos. Los primeros inviernos y el juego: chapotear en la escarcha. El horno de una panadería y Narducho en el contiguo terreno baldío, que a guisa de zapatos tenía tablitas de maderas en los pies envueltas en retazos de arpillera y en la mano para todo servicio, un jarro de hojalata. Como estampita de San Francisco. O inocente de epopeya rusa.
Loco tranquilo, loco de barrio, en Santos Lugares, que tampoco existe.
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