Translated to English by Richard Gabela on September 17, 2024, from the original work “Diecisiete puñaladas no son nada” by Pedro Gil Flores (1971-2022) of Manta, Ecuador. I have translated the title of the poem as “Seventeen Stab Wounds Ain’t Nothing.”
Seventeen Stab Wounds Ain’t Nothing
To Bahieh, Tuti, and Omid
The pain of dying like this is not worth it
—Octavio Paz
My dead sister
whispers a lullaby in the hospital:
It’s not your turn, not your time
Rest, ñaño
Rebellion in the eyes
Submission in the heart’s beat
There, let not your will be done
Friend of outcasts
Only your suffering is perfect,
Perfect the afternoon’s bleeding
Washed by rain
so melancholic,
So tearful,
like childhood lost in a cemetery of the living,
in septic well of sacrifices
But your misery was a luxury, ñaño
Books, battles won against humiliation
You triumphed,
seventeen stab wounds ain’t nothing
The soul ready for more
luxurious misery
Brain intact, kindness intact
Those white, kind, smiling nurses
That mulatto woman warding off your final fade
Don’t cross the bridge
You’re too beautiful
That’s why you keep searching
Beauty’s not among us
The deceased volunteers
Search, search
Keep searching, ñaño, for when you’re ready,
Death has ordered me
not to let you drown in sobs
Nightingale without laughter
Rest, rest, my brother, it’s not your turn
Seventeen stab wounds ain’t nothing
I can’t grant your request
for death,
I can’t,
whispers my dead sister
As she comforts my dream,
Comforts my agony.
Translator’s Note: My aim was to preserve the visceral impact of the original, capturing its brutal honesty while allowing the profound reflections on life, death, and the search for beauty to resonate. This poem tells of a personal experience the author endured when being stabbed 17 times. The references to a sister who appears as a guiding, comforting presence in the hospital infuse the narrative with a haunting tenderness, reminding us of the thin veil between life and death. In translating this work, I sought to honor the poet’s voice, ensuring that each line carried the weight of his experience and the delicate balance between defiance and vulnerability.
Diecisiete puñaladas no son nada
A Bahieh, Tuti y Omid
La pena de morir así no vale la pena
—Octavio Paz
Mi hermana muerta
Susurra una canción de cuna en el hospital
No te toca no es tu hora
Reposa ñaño
Rebeldía en los ojos
Sometimiento al latir del corazón.
Allá no se haga tu voluntad
Amiga de parias
Sólo tu sufrimiento es perfecto
Perfecto el desangrar de la tarde
Lavado por una lluvia
Tan melancólica
Tan llorosa
Como la niñez perdida en un cementerio
De vivos en un pozo séptico de sacrificios
Pero tu miseria fue de lujo ñaño
Libros peleas ganadas a la humillación
Triunfaste
17 puñaladas no son nada.
El alma está lista para más
Miseria de lujo
El cerebro intacto, la bondad intacta
Esas blancas enfermeras bondadosas sonrientes
Esa mulata evitándote el desmayo definitivo
No cruces el puente
Eres demasiado bello
Por eso sigue buscando
La belleza no está entre nosotros
Los voluntarios fallecidos
Busca, busca
Sigue buscando ñaño que cuando estés
Listo La Muerte me ha dado la orden
De no dejarte inundar con sollozos.
Ruiseñor sin risa
Reposa, resposa mi hermano no te toca
17 puñaladas no son nada.
No puedo conceder tu petición
De fallecimiento,
No puedo
Susurra mi hermana muerta
Mientras cobija mi sueño
Cobija mi agonía.