Translated to English by Richard Gabela on April 2, 2024, from the original work “Hojas secas” by Honorato Vázquez Ochoa (1855-1933) of Cuenca, Ecuador. I have translated the title of the poem as “Dry Leaves.”
Dry Leaves
If flowers are absent, Madame,
When the summer’s heat prevails,
At least dry leaves remain,
Scattered upon the grass;
If flowers are absent, Madame,
My heart still holds for you a humble affection.
Oh, when the wind begins to rise,
It carries off the fallen leaves;
If not, the passersby
Tread them underfoot.
Oh! When the wind begins to rise,
Poor garden, withered part of our souls.
The sun blazes fiercely,
And in the garden it scorches
The leaves, unless dawn sheds
Its cool, refreshing tears;
The sun blazes fiercely…
For all that dies, only tears remain.
You see, beloved Mother,
That I hold in my soul
Affections that are fading,
Destined to perish tomorrow;
You see, beloved Mother,
My poor withered garden lies bare.
And though it’s withered today,
I do not wish, dear Mother,
For its leaves to be swept by wind,
Or crushed beneath passing feet;
And though it’s withered today,
There are leaves my heart still dedicates to you.
What to do with that which dies?
Kiss it with our very souls,
Leave it among the dead
In its final resting place;
What to do with that which dies?
Pour our tears upon its grave!…
If spring should return again
And on its first bright morning,
My garden blooms with flowers
Amidst the emerald leaves;
If spring should return again,
Yours shall be the first flower, beloved Mother.
Translator’s Note: I chose to translate Honorato Vázquez Ochoa‘s poem “Dry Leaves” as it beautifully conveys the poet’s deep emotions and serves as a heartfelt tribute to his mother. Vázquez Ochoa was a prominent Ecuadorian diplomat, lawyer, educator, painter, grammarian, writer, and poet, celebrated as one of the foremost figures of Cuencan lyricism in the 19th century. Through this translation, I aim to share the timeless themes of love, loss, and resilience found in Vázquez Ochoa’s poetry with a wider audience, preserving the essence of his sentiment and the simplicity of his language.
Original Spanish Version
Hojas secas
Si no hay flores, Señora,
cuando el estío abrasa,
siquiera hay hojas secas
caídas en la grama;
si no hay flores, Señora,
un pobre afecto el corazón te guarda.
¡Ay! Cuando sopla el viento,
se lleva la hojarasca;
si no, los caminantes
la huellan, cuando pasan.
¡Ay! Cuando sopla el viento,
¡pobre jardín, marchito de nuestra alma!
El sol es ardoroso,
y en el jardín abrasa
las hojas, si no vierte
su fresco llanto el alba;
el sol es ardoroso…,
para aquello que muere, solo lágrimas…
Ya ves, Madre querida,
que sólo tengo en mi alma,
afectos que agonizan
y morirán mañana;
ya ves, Madre querida,
que mi pobre jardín marchito se halla.
Y aunque hoy está agostado,
no quiero, Madre amada,
sus hojas lleve el viento,
las huellen los que pasan;
y aunque hoy está agostado,
hojas hay que mi pecho te consagra.
¿Qué hacer con lo que muere?
Besarlo con el alma,
dejarlo de los muertos
en la postrer morada;
¿qué hacer con lo que muere?
¡verter en su sepulcro nuestras lágrimas!…
Si vuelve primavera
y á su primer mañana,
brota mi jardín flores,
entre hojas de esmeralda;
si vuelve primavera,
tuya es la flor primera, Madre amada.