Clouds and Wind
The fiery rays of the summer sun
are scorching the earth.
The withered prairie, in its slow death throes,
is seared and consumed as the hours pass.
On the dry, barren riverbank nearby,
nothing remains but sand, sparse and scalding;
vapors shimmer and sparkle as they rise
from a fetid pond off in the distance.
Not a soul as far as the eye can see;
not even the faintest sound can be heard.
How peaceful it is, yet how tedious,
this stillness suggestive of a graveyard!
Suddenly, on the horizon appears
the whitest of clouds.
It expands, extends across the broad skies,
encompasses all.
The sultry atmosphere throbs with delight
and the whisper of an indiscreet breeze
spreads the word through forests and over fields:
festivity is nigh.
The message is passed by the vague echoes
of the wind in its peregrinations.
Tirelessly it frolics in the meadows,
then heads for the town.
It races through the streets, collides with walls,
makes the doors rattle.
In fields and streets, it cries out in triumph:
“The time has arrived!”
In their excitement, ready to rejoice,
plants and flowers cause the earth to convulse;
and from the great cloud hanging overhead
comes a resounding, orchestral echo.
First, a downpour; then the wind approaches,
making a racket, to dry out the land,
and its wild, howling gusts cause the grasses
of the vast prairie to shake to and fro.
First, a downpour; then the wind sweeps away
flowers and foliage, pebbles and sand.
It takes mere moments to sow its chaos,
transforming the scene.
The lively grove cheerfully surrenders
to this inducement;
pepper trees and willows set to dancing,
their foliage unfettered in the breeze.
The ancient tree trunks can barely withstand
the wind’s savage strength.
Parched and groaning, they lament the cruel fate
of forests and fields:
“Halt, frail stones from the barren riverbank!
Know you not where you are being taken?
Will you be happy tomorrow to find
the lovely prairie littered with debris?
“What of the flowers, innocent and white,
beside the fetid pond?
What will they do if that mire is stirred up,
strewing unwholesome vapors o’er the earth?
“What destiny awaits the birds whose nest
hangs upon the branch?
What are you thinking, you fools, as you sow
disorder and disruption far and wide?”
And the reckless wind answers these complaints
with raucous laughter;
and from the great cloud hanging overhead
comes a resounding, orchestral echo.
The wind’s orgiastic howling subsides.
The dance continues; the evening begins.
The countryside, strewn with mire and debris,
is cloaked in darkness.
What has become of the birds and flowers?
What of the beautiful, fertile prairie?
After this night of horror emerges
a morning serene and bright as any.
Enrobed in cool hues, branches are covered
in new buds and sprouts.
The countryside undergoes a rebirth,
flaunting its imperishable finery.
Such is the way of the world—sweet mystery!—
all being renewed,
as the forces of night and wind beget
destruction and creation in tandem.
Alas, this morning unfolds as all do:
it dissipates into pale afternoon,
the muck giving off the last, earnest breaths
of flowers now dead.
Ye gentlewomen with untroubled brows,
confident that Heaven’s glory awaits:
Do you, by chance, know what fate has in store?
Do you know what it means to be alive?
Sad is the fate that befell those flowers!
Yours shall be the same.
Happy are the rocks—happy stones and sand—
that feel nothing, know nothing of living.
And we, vainglorious, pass the hours
spinning fantasies.
What are we, in the end? Mere residue,
fertilizer that nourishes new life.
Arise out of nothing, dream a few dreams,
feel oneself immortal, return to dust—
Sweet enigma of life, eternal change,
whence your majesty?
If closely held yearnings, the soul’s essence,
perish as do we—
if all is deception, all fantasy—
alas, o Nature, mother of all things,
accursed is your futile busywork!
Weeping
Written on your countenance
By tracks of teardrops stained,
I see your lost illusions,
Sweet longings uncontained.
Why, good woman, weep at all?
Why dream at such great cost?
Some imagined paradise,
Some daydream’s all you’ve lost.
Though bonds of love be feeble,
Your blind heart’s slow to learn:
Deception, lies, and pretense
You’ll find at every turn.
To love, to mourn, to suffer:
Such is the bitter fate
Of every soul ever born
To walk this narrow strait.
The Swan
I, a flower whose stem is bent over,
endure bitter and unseen chagrin.
A budworm is hidden inside me,
devouring me from within.
I, a swan singing always in sorrow,
awaiting the day of my death,
having spent my existence in mourning,
wish to die with a song on my breath.
How painful it is to remember!
How unyielding is memory’s toll!
To forget is to let the soul slumber,
but such solace eludes my soul.
The deepest of sorrows consumes me,
my countenance harrowed and glum.
How bitter my life is at present!
How bitter the days yet to come!
Author bio:
Adela Zamudio (1854–1928) was a writer, activist, and educator from Cochabamba, Bolivia. Often using the pen name Soledad, she published numerous essays, poems, and short stories, as well as one novel, Íntimas. She was recognized in her lifetime as one of her country’s finest poets and was honored in 1926 by presidential decree as “the greatest exemplar of culture in Bolivia.” She is perhaps best remembered today as a pioneer in the Bolivian feminist movement, having advocated for reforms ranging from secular education for girls to women’s right to divorce.
Translator bio:
Laura Nagle is a translator and writer based in Indianapolis. Her translations of prose and poetry from French and Spanish have appeared or are forthcoming in journals including AGNI, The Southern Review, and The Los Angeles Review. She received a Travel Fellowship from the American Literary Translators Association in 2020.
