Seamus Heaney: Seguidor

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.