SEGUIDOR
Mi padre araba con un caballo de tiro,
su espalda se curvaba como una vela inflada
extendida entre la esteva y el surco.
El caballo tiraba a un chasquido de su lengua.
Todo un experto. Colocaba el yugo
y ensartaba la reja de acero reluciente.
Y la tierra se volteaba sin romperse.
Al final del campo, con un solo tirón
de riendas, el grupo sudoroso daba la vuelta
y volvía a la tierra. El ojo entrecerrado
de mi padre, fijo en el suelo,
trazando cada surco con exactitud.
Yo tropezaba en la huella de sus botas,
a veces me caía en la tierra lustrosa,
otras veces él me llevaba en andas
subiendo y bajando mientras caminaba.
Yo quería crecer y arar,
cerrar un ojo, tensar el brazo.
Lo único que hacía era seguir
su sombra ancha alrededor de la granja.
Era un fastidio, tropezando, cayéndome,
siempre parloteando. Pero ahora
es mi padre el que tropieza
detrás de mí, y no se va.
Seamus Heaney
Versión: Sandra Toro
FOLLOWER
My father worked with a horse-plough,
His shoulders globed like a full sail strung
Between the shafts and the furrow.
The horse strained at his clicking tongue.
An expert. He would set the wing
And fit the bright steel-pointed sock.
The sod rolled over without breaking.
At the headrig, with a single pluck
Of reins, the sweating team turned round
And back into the land. His eye
Narrowed and angled at the ground,
Mapping the furrow exactly.
I stumbled in his hob-nailed wake,
Fell sometimes on the polished sod;
Sometimes he rode me on his back
Dipping and rising to his plod.
I wanted to grow up and plough,
To close one eye, stiffen my arm.
All I ever did was follow
In his broad shadow round the farm.
I was a nuisance, tripping, falling,
Yapping always. But today
It is my father who keeps stumbling
Behind me, and will not go away.
