Språket som det ska översättas till: Engelska
Bread
by Gabriela Mistral
They left a loaf of bread on the table,
white inside, brown crust,
its top broken into a scatter
of big snowy crumbs.
It seems new, a thing I've never seen,
yet it's all I've ever eaten,
but half-asleep, playing with its crumbs,
touch and smell are forgotten.
It smells like my mother suckling me.
It smells like my three valleys,
Aconcagua, Pa'tzcuaro, Elqui.
It smells like I feel when I'm singing.
There are no other smells in the farmhouse
and that's how it could call me.
Nobody else around the house,
only this loaf broken open on a plate
that knows me with its body
as I know it with mine.
Everywhere in the world its been eaten,
this same bread, its hundred brothers,
bread of Coquimbo, bread of Oaxaca,
bread of Santa Ana and Santiago.
When I was little, I knew it,
in the shape of a sun, a fish, a ring,
and my hand knew its inner warmth
like a plumy pigeon.
Then I forgot it till today,
when we two meet,
I with my body of an aged Sara,
it with the body of a five-year-old.
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