Al tema del bombardeo atómico y la literatura japonesa ya me he referido brevemente en "Japón después" . Hoy, en el sesenta y cinco aniversario de la tragedia, quiero reproducir la traducción de Richard Minear de "Hiroshima and the Emperor’s New Clothes", de Kurihara Sadako. Aunque algunas obras conocidas en occidente hagan suponer lo contrario -acaso con la ayuda del cine y por las propias dimensiones del tema- en general las traducciones de literatura japonesa sobre Hiroshima y Nagasaki siguen siendo bastante escasas, especialmente para el caso de la poesía, o de las obras de autores víctimas ellos mismos del bombardeo.
Hiroshima and the Emperor’s New Clothes
Chubby,
glossy face shiny with sweat,
the emperor of the new clothes,
his (nuclear) belly button plain to see,
says he’s coming to Hiroshima.
He says he’ll pay his respects at the atomic cenotaph.
Can he really stand
belly-button-bare before the monument
that says “the mistake shall not be repeated”?
The emperor of the new clothes,
who says what is isn’t
and what isn’t is
and turns lies and fraud into state policy,
says he’s coming,
bare belly button and all.
In Hiroshima
not only the children
but also the old people, the men, the women
laugh, get angry
at the chubby emperor’s
belly-button antics.
In April he pays his respects at the shrine to war,
in August he pays his respects at the atomic cenotaph.
Repeating flat contradictions every day,
in the country across the sea
he says what they want him to say;
here at home, for domestic consumption,
he says what is isn’t
and what isn’t is.
But Hiroshima will not be fooled.
O, you 200,000 dead!
Come forth, all together,
from the grave, from underground.
Faces swollen with burns,
black and festering,
lips torn,
say faintly, “We stand here in reproach.”
Shuffle slowly forward,
both arms shoulder high,
trailing peeled-off skin.
Tell them—
the emperor of the new clothes
and his entire party—
what day August sixth is.
Hiroshima and the Emperor’s New Clothes
Chubby,
glossy face shiny with sweat,
the emperor of the new clothes,
his (nuclear) belly button plain to see,
says he’s coming to Hiroshima.
He says he’ll pay his respects at the atomic cenotaph.
Can he really stand
belly-button-bare before the monument
that says “the mistake shall not be repeated”?
The emperor of the new clothes,
who says what is isn’t
and what isn’t is
and turns lies and fraud into state policy,
says he’s coming,
bare belly button and all.
In Hiroshima
not only the children
but also the old people, the men, the women
laugh, get angry
at the chubby emperor’s
belly-button antics.
In April he pays his respects at the shrine to war,
in August he pays his respects at the atomic cenotaph.
Repeating flat contradictions every day,
in the country across the sea
he says what they want him to say;
here at home, for domestic consumption,
he says what is isn’t
and what isn’t is.
But Hiroshima will not be fooled.
O, you 200,000 dead!
Come forth, all together,
from the grave, from underground.
Faces swollen with burns,
black and festering,
lips torn,
say faintly, “We stand here in reproach.”
Shuffle slowly forward,
both arms shoulder high,
trailing peeled-off skin.
Tell them—
the emperor of the new clothes
and his entire party—
what day August sixth is.
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