El Fénix y la
tórtola
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Que el pájaro de canto
más agudo |
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en el único árbol de la Arabia, |
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sea heraldo y clarín con su tristeza |
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y obedezcan su voz las castas alas. |
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Pero tú, mensajero
vocinglero, |
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sucio procurador del vil demonio, |
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agorero del fin de nuestra fiebre, |
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no te acerques, jamás, a este tropel. |
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Que sea esta reunión, por
fin vedada, |
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a las aves de alas dictadoras, |
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a excepción de las águilas
solemnes: |
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Regúlese el rigor de estas exequias. |
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Que el sacerdote vista, alba
casulla, |
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como cantor de sones funerarios. |
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Sea el cisne agorero de la muerte |
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para que el Réquiem no falte a la
cita. |
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Y tú, cuervo tres veces
centenario, |
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que has creado las razas más oscuras, |
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con el aire que das y que has tomado, |
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camina junto a nuestros sufridores. |
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Aquí y en este instante
empieza el himno: |
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Han muerto ya el amor y la constancia, |
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el fénix y la tórtola han
volado |
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en llama solitaria de este sitio. |
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Siendo dos a querer, tanto se
amaban |
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que fundieron en uno su cariño, |
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dos seres tan distintos, indivisos, |
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por la gracia de amor muerto su
número. |
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Corazones distantes, no
alejados; |
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distantes al mirar sin ver espacio |
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«entre la dulce tórtola y el
fénix |
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consiguieron un mundo prodigioso». |
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Tal resplandor había en
sus amores |
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que veía la tórtola sus bienes |
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flamear en los ojos de su fénix, |
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porque todo lo suyo era de ella. |
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Mas resultó la
lógica violada |
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ya que todo lo propio era distinto |
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y a unión de su nombre en uno solo |
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no podía expresarse con un
número. |
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Confusa la razón por ella
misma |
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veía florecer lo dividido, |
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para sí, lo del uno y lo del otro |
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y a la vez lo sencillo y lo compuesto. |
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Y exclamó:
«¡Este dúo bien parece |
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por su grata armonía una voz
sólo!» |
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Tiene el amor razón y no la tiene |
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si así se identifica lo distinto. |
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Y compuso este canto
funerario |
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a la tierna paloma y a su fénix, |
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compañeros y estrellas del amor, |
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como coro a su trágico escenario. |
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The Phoenix and
turtle
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Let the bird of loudest lay, |
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on the sole
Arabian tree, |
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herald sad and
trumpet be, |
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to whose sound
chaste wings obey. |
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But thou shrieking harbinger, |
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foul precurrer
of the fiend, |
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augur of the
fever's end, |
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to this troop
come thou not near! |
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From this session interdict |
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every fowl of
tyrant wing, |
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save the eagle,
feather'd king. |
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Keep the obsequy
so strict. |
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Let the priest in surplice white, |
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that defunctive
music can, |
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be the
death-divining swan, |
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lest the requiem
lack his right. |
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And thou treble-dated crow, |
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that thy sable
gender mak'st |
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with the breath
thou giv'st and tak'st, |
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'mongst our
mourners shalt thou go. |
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Here the anthem doth commence: |
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Love and
constancy is dead; |
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Phoenix and the
turtle fled |
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in a mutual
flame from hence. |
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So they loved, as love in twain |
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had the essence
but in one; |
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two distincts,
division none: |
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Number there in
love was slain. |
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Hearts remote, yet not asunder; |
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distance, and no
space was seen |
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«twixt the
turtle and his queen; |
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but in them it
were a wonder». |
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So between them love did shine, |
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that the turtle
saw his right |
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flaming in the
phoenix' sight; |
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either was the
other's mine. |
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Property was thus appalled, |
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that the self
was not the same; |
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single nature's
double name |
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neither two nor
one was called. |
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Reason, in itself confounded, |
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saw division
grow together, |
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to themselves
yet either neither, |
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simple were so
well compounded, |
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that it cried? How true a twain |
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seemeth this
concordant one! |
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Love hath
reason, reason none, |
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if what parts
can so remain. |
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Whereupon it made this threne |
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to the phoenix
and the dove, |
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co-supremes and
stars of love, |
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as chorus to
their tragic scene. |
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