Testamento - Silvio Rodríguez

Como la muerte anda en secreto

y no se sabe qu maana,

yo voy a hacer mi testamento,

a repartir lo que me falta

pues lo que tuve ya est hecho,

ya est abrigado, ya est en casa.

Yo voy a hacer mi testamento

para cerrar cuentas soadas.

Le debo una cancin a la sonrisa,

a la sonrisa de manantial, esa que salta:

le debo una cancin a toda prisa

para que quede que estuvo cerca, agazapada.

Le debo una cancin a lo que supe,

a lo que supe y no pudo ser ms que silencio:

le debo una cancin, una que ocupe

la cantidad de mordazamor de un juramento.

Le debo una cancin a los pecados,

a los pecados que no gast, los que no pude:

le debo una cancin, no como hermano,

slo de sal que el delectador tambin alude.

Le debo una cancin a la mentira,

a la mentira pequea, frgil, casi salva:

le debo una cancin endurecida,

una cancin asesina, bruta, sanguinaria.

Le debo una cancin al oportuno,

al oportuno mutilador de cuanta ala:

le debo una cancin de tono oscuro

que lo encadene a vagar su eterna madrugada.

Le debo una cancin a las fronteras,

a las fronteras humanas, no a las del misterio:

le debo una cancin tan poco nueva

como la voz ms elemental de los colegios.

Le debo una cancin a una bala,

a un proyectil que debi esperarme en una selva:

le debo una cancin desesperada,

desesperada por no poder llegar a verla.

Le debo una cancin al compaero,

al compaero de riesgos, al de la victoria:

le debo una cancin de canto nuevo,

una bandera comn que vuele con la historia.

Le debo una cancin, una, a la muerte,

una a la muerte voraz que se comer tanto:

le debo una cancin en que hunda el diente

y luego esparza con la explosin fuegos del canto.

Le debo una cancin a lo imposible,

a la mujer, a la estrella, al sueo que nos lanza:

le debo una cancin indescriptible

como una vela inflamada en vientos de esperanza.

As death walks in secret

and you don't know what tomorrow,

I'm going to make my will,

to distribute what I lack

because what I had is already done,

He's already warm, he's already at home.

I'm going to make my will

to close dream accounts.

I owe a song to the smile,

to the spring smile, the one that jumps:

I owe you a song in a hurry

so that it remains close, crouching.

I owe a song to what I knew

to what I knew and it could not have been more than silence:

I owe him a song, one that occupies

the amount of lovegag in an oath.

I owe a song to sins,

to the sins I didn't spend, the ones I couldn't:

I owe him a song, not as a brother,

only salt that the reader also alludes to.

I owe a song to the lie,

to the small, fragile, almost saved lie:

I owe him a hardened song,

a murderous, brutal, bloodthirsty song.

I owe a song to the opportune,

to the timely mutilator of how many wings:

I owe him a pitch dark song

that chains him to wander his eternal dawn.

I owe a song to the borders,

to human borders, not to those of mystery:

I owe him such a little new song

as the most elemental voice of the schools.

I owe a song to a bullet

to a projectile that must have waited for me in a jungle:

I owe him a desperate song

desperate not to be able to see her.

I owe a song to my partner,

to the partner of risks, to the one of victory:

I owe him a new singing song,

a common flag that flies with history.

I owe a song, one, to death,

one to the ravenous death that eats so much:

I owe him a song in which he sinks his teeth

and then scatter fires from the song with the explosion.

I owe a song to the impossible,

to the woman, to the star, to the dream that launches us:

I owe him an indescribable song

like a candle lit in winds of hope.