THE TALE OF CLAUDIUS MONTEFLAVO Poem by León de Greiff

To Rafael Vásquez


As we got to the road-side inn
- from where, down below, the river's song is heard -
we alighted from the steeds
and the tinkling of goad-spurs and pebbles
sang a song of bloody stars.

- Hail-ho, the inn keeper!

rang out the husky voices.

And then the bubbles sang
their crystal-clear note's of the translucent glass,
and we asked for the Treasure in that mountain-side inn kept:

"Bye and bye it shall be going, it is going, it is going, if not gone yet . . . ".

That inn is a cross-roads of haily winds
- that inn, in a deep gorge in the nakedness of the sierra -
the wind singing the song of the Winds
and down below, deep down, the river's ribbon
and the river's lament.

And then, after the bubbles musical elation,
Amid the hearth-stones the fire sang its lay,
the rushing blood its lusty paean.
Later, the stars on their watch
silently poured their melody
while hostelry hags grumbled their prayers.
And we questioned again:
- where is she, Maria-Luz, she of the full, berry lips?

"Bye and bye she shall be going, now she's going, if she's not yet gone".

And we went back to the stamping steeds.
The Southern Cross on the limit of mount and sky,
Clash of steel against rounded-out flint,
silently we began climbing down
the rough trail and its winding steps,
the trail under star-light sifted through violets,
the trail under the scented and whispering breezes,
the trail amid the harsh twang of the wood-land,
the trail amid the music of quiescent waters
and the rushing and falling streams.

From its greenish glassy prison
gushed forth the crystal liquid
in a trilling of bubbles
and perfume of aniseed moonshine.

All of us rode in silence, each one in tacit dialogue
with his friend of glass
But one of us - that rider of flaming red beard -
sang out, rang out with powerful accents that bore through the blackness
The King of the Alders,
quite improperly . . . and asked in thundering voice:
- What has happened, prithee, to the road-side inn's treasure?

"Bye and bye she shall go, now she's going, if she's not yet gone".

And again it was heard the lilt of the bubbles
and the transparent glass . . . And a last we were at the river's brink.
-It may be that Nuño Ansúrez won't take us across in his ferry?
- Pish', it won't matter!
Pish', it won't matter!

And again issued forth song of the bubbles and glasses
and a gurgling of living gems.
It was mid-night! By the river's brink,
what a limpid mid-night! - This is the forest
of murex and gold!

This, the open, innumerable life!

And what about the Treasure of the inn?
- Where is now Maria-Luz, she of the coal-black eyes,
the coal-black locks and downy lips?

"Bye and bye she shall be going, now she's going, if she's not yet gone".


Netupiromba. November 17th, 1931.