Translated to English by Richard Gabela on April 5, 2024, from the original work “Minuto muerto” by Gerardo Chiriboga (1895-1966) of Riobamba, Ecuador. I have translated the title of the poem as “Dead Minute.”
DEAD MINUTE
Silence entered like a doctor—
creeping in, whispering morbid secrets.
It felt the pulse of my voice
and, on its centuries-old clock,
measured the edges of my nerves.
In the dark crossroads of my mind,
memory let out a cry
and in a sweaty gallop arrived
the ghosts of dead days,
stumbling over the knots in my tears,
preserved in the camphor of my dreams.
The mirror, startled, scowled.
Owls of uncertainty tumbled into shadows,
flailing and colliding;
and on the broom of time passed insomnia,
tumbling off, overcome by sleep.
A star spoke, and silence scattered.
Memories crushed themselves against the ceiling,
while mice gnawed at my inner turmoil
and scampered away, defeated.
A match flared with a hollow burst,
and from the sharp cry of my voice
the dead minute lay suspended in the air.
Alone I stood,
and at the base of the candlestick,
an open book lay bare, laughing.
Translator’s Note: Translating Dead Minute from Gerardo Chiriboga’s Minuto muerto (1934) offered a rare chance to delve into a work that merges existential dread with surreal imagery. Chiriboga’s poem explores silence as a force—personified as a doctor—measuring the narrator’s inner turmoil with chilling precision. I was compelled to translate this piece for its haunting portrayal of memory and insomnia, where “ghosts of dead days” and “owls of uncertainty” populate a landscape of inner conflict. Each stanza unfolds a psychological dissection, building toward the startling final image of the “dead minute” hanging in the air, suspended in a moment of self-awareness. This translation strives to retain Chiriboga’s rhythmic tension and striking visuals, drawing the reader into the poem’s eerie interplay of silence, memory, and time, ultimately leaving us alone with the “open book” of unresolved thoughts at the poem’s end.
Original Spanish Version
MINUTO MUERTO
El silencio llegó cual llega un médico.
Venía zapatillando sus mórbidos secretos.
Tomó el pulso de mi voz
y en su reloj de siglos
midió las aristas de mis nervios.
En las encrucijadas siniestras del cerebro
lanzó alaridos el recuerdo
y vinieron, galopando, sudorosos,
los fantasmas de los días muertos,
tropezando en los nudos de las lágrimas,
disecados en alcanfor de ensueño.
El espejo, asustado, frunció el ceño.
Cayeron a manotazos en las sombras,
atropellándose, los buhos de lo incierto;
y cabalgando la escoba de las horas
pasó el insomnio, cayéndose de sueño.
Habló un lucero y se espantó el silencio.
Contra el techo se mataron los recuerdos
y huyeron derrotados los ratones
que degollaban mi desasosiego.
Rugió un fósforo con fogonazo hueco
y de feroz puñalada de mi voz
en el aire quedó el minuto muerto.
Estaba sólo
y al pie del candelero
se reía, desnudo, un libro abierto.