Mapuches
We’re passing, passing
through the old Araucanía
that we neither see nor mention.
Without knowing it, we’re passing
through a kingdom of the forgotten,
who we deride as banal mestizos
or fantasies, although our faces
continue to declare them present.
Something’s approaching, coming near
like a fast word—
not a fleeing stag
but an alarmed Indian woman.
Carrying a little Indian boy on her back,
she keeps flying. Panic!
—Tell me, why does she run away,
shrouding her face?
Call her, bring her back, run,
for she looks like my mum.
—She won’t come back, little one,
she passed like a ghost.
Running after her, no one will catch up.
She fled because she saw
strangers, white people.
Little one, listen: they were
owners of forest and mountain,
of all the eye can see
and all the eye can’t reach,
of herbs, of fruits,
of Araucanian air and light,
until the arrival of those owners
of horses and rifles.
—Don’t talk about it now, no,
shout, whistle, bring her back.
—She’s already lost, my son,
swallowed up in the Forest-Mother.
Why are you crying? You’ve seen her,
though not a trace of her remains.
—Say what they’re called, say it.
—They’ve even lost their name.
They’re called Mapuches
and what they don’t want
is to see us, to hear us talk.
They were dispossessed
but they are the Old Country,
our first birth-cry
and our first word.
They’re a long, ancient chorus
that sings or laughs no more.
Name them yourself, say it with me:
brave-Mapuche-people.
Keep going: they fell.
Say more: tomorrow they will return.
Leave it there, one day you’ll see her
returned and transfigured,
coming down from Quechua country
to Mapuche country,
to look and to remember
and to embrace in silence.
They could never meet
to look into the other’s eyes,
to love each other and to trace
the shapes of their souls
on their faces.
Araucanos
Vamos pasando, pasando
la vieja Araucanía
que ni vemos ni mentamos.
Vamos, sin saber, pasando
reino de unos olvidados,
que por mestizos banales,
por fábula los contamos,
aunque nuestras caras
suelen sin palabras declararlos.
Eso que viene y se acerca
como una palabra rápida
no es el escapar de un ciervo
que es una india azorada.
Lleva a la espalda al indito
y va que vuela. ¡Cuitada!
—¿Por qué va corriendo, di,
y escabullendo la cara?
Llámala, tráela, corre
que se parece a mi mama.
—No va a volverse, chiquito,
ya pasó como un fantasma.
Corre más, nadie la alcanza.
Va escapada de que vio
forasteros, gente blanca.
Chiquito, escucha: ellos eran
dueños de bosque y montaña
de lo que los ojos ven
y lo que el ojo no alcanza,
de hierbas, de frutos, de
aire y luces araucanas,
hasta el llegar de unos dueños
de rifles y caballadas.
—No cuentes ahora, no,
grita, da un silbido, tráela.
—Ya se pierde ya, mi niño,
de Madre-Selva tragada.
¿A qué lloras? Ya la viste,
ya ni se le ve la espalda.
—Di cómo se llaman, dilo.
—Hasta su nombre les falta.
Los mientan “araucanos”
y no quieren de nosotros
vernos bulto, oírnos habla.
Ellos fueron despojados,
pero son la Vieja Patria,
el primer vagido nuestro
y nuestra primera palabra.
Son un largo coro antiguo
que no más ríe y ni canta.
Nómbrala tú, di conmigo:
brava-gente-araucana.
Sigue diciendo: cayeron.
Di más: volverán mañana.
Deja, la verás un día
devuelta y transfigurada
bajar de la tierra quechua
a la tierra araucana,
mirarse y reconocerse
y abrazarse sin palabras.
Ellas nunca se encontraron
para mirarse a la cara
y amarse y deletrear
sobre los rostros sus almas.
