LOS SABIOS DE ORIENTE (1)

LOS SABIOS DE ORIENTE

En el día de Reyes, en que disfrutan tanto los niños al abrir sus regalos y todos nos convertimos en niños, al menos en la ilusión de aquellos imborrables días de infancia en que madrugábamos, aunque sólo fuera por un día en las vacaciones de Navidad, para ver lo que los Reyes nos habían dejado en los zapatos. Hoy los Reyes os traen a esta página, como ya os prometí, uno de los poemas más célebres de Chesterton.
En esta primera entrega os brindo el poema en versión original. En la siguiente, completaremos nuestro peculiar homenaje al día de Reyes y a nuestro autor favorito con nuestra propia traducción, o mejor versión, del citado poema. Ya os comentaremos los pormenores de nuestra peculiar versión, de momento le hemos añadido al título 'LOS SABIOS DE ORIENTE' ese 'de Oriente' que no estaba en la obra original.
Que lo disfrutéis y FELIZ DÍA DE REYES: esperamos que os hayan traído los regalos que deseábais, pero que os traigan mucha paz, amor, salud y alegría.

THE WISE MEN

Step softly, under snow or rain,
To find the place where men can pray;
The way is all so very plain
That we may lose the way.

Oh, we have learnt to peer and pore
On tortured puzzles from our youth,
We know all the labyrinthine lore,
We are the three wise men of yore,
And we know all things but truth.

We have gone round and round the hill
And lost the wood among the trees,
And learnt long names for every ill,
And serve the made gods, naming still
The furies the Eumenides.

The gods of violence took the veil
Of vision and philosophy,
The Serpent that brought all men bale,
He bites his own accursed tail,
And calls himself Eternity.

Go humbly ... it has hailed and snowed...
With voices low and lanterns lit;
So very simple is the road,
That we may stray from it.

The world grows terrible and white,
And blinding white the breaking day;
We walk bewildered in the light,
For something is too large for sight,
And something much too plain to say.

The Child that was ere worlds begun
(... We need but walk a little way,
We need but see a latch undone...)
The Child that played with moon and sun
Is playing with a little hay.

The house from which the heavens are fed,
The old strange house that is our own,
Where trick of words are never said,
And Mercy is as plain as bread,
And Honour is as hard as stone.

Go humbly, humble are the skies,
And low and large and fierce the Star;
So very near the Manger lies
That we may travel far.

Hark! Laughter like a lion wakes
To roar to the resounding plain.
And the whole heaven shouts and shakes,
For God Himself is born again,
And we are little children walking
Through the snow and rain.