O médico escóitame con atención
pregunta por cousas da miña vida
dun xeito que me fai sentir coidado
analiza con delicadeza as miñas cinco feridas
aplícalles un primeiro bálsamo
que estende coa sua dicción coidada
Por atrás da voz agarimosa
asoma como nun eco afastado
o meu nome na boca nerviosa
da enfermeira coa lista de pacientes;
duas, tres veces, ata que respondo:
perdón, son eu!
Entro á consulta, o médico cansado
despáchame en poucos minutos
pois non traio algo realmente urxente,
unha doenza que me levaría á morte
sen a sua certeira intervención;
este home sabe como aforrar
os escasos recursos asignados.
Saín decepcionado agarrado á receita
porén, cando conseguín descifrar a letra
asombroume a precisión do diagnóstico:
“De las cinco que piensas que traes
Llegaste solo con tres heridas
La del amor, la de la muerte, la de la vida”
The Imaginary Invalid
The doctor listens to me attentively,
asks about things in my life
in a way that makes me feel cared for.
He gently examines my five wounds,
applies a first balm
which he spreads with his careful diction.
Behind his gentle voice,
like a distant echo,
my name emerges from the nervous lips
of the nurse with her list of patients;
twice, three times, until I answer:
Sorry, that's me!
I enter the consulting room. The tired doctor
dispatches me in just a few minutes,
since I bring nothing truly urgent,
no illness that would lead me to death
without his timely intervention.
This man knows how to make the most
of the scarce resources at his disposal.
I leave disappointed, clutching my prescription.
Yet, when I manage to decipher his handwriting,
I'm astonished by the precision of his diagnosis:
"Of the five you thought you had,
you came with only three wounds:
that of love, that of death, that of life."
For those unfamiliar with Spanish poetry, the diagnosis points to a poem by Miguel Hernández.
