Ah, beautiful and pitiful! ah, last
And fairest of the daughters of the Past
Born out of time and in most grievous days
When unto beauty men mete out no praise !
Lone Gothic princess, all your line is dead:
The glory of your race is vanished: fled
Is that high faith that should have found in you
Its meet delight and its expression true…
Un gran vuelo de cuervos mancha el azul celeste.
Un soplo milenario trae amagos de peste.
Se asesinan los hombres en el extremo Este.
¿Ha nacido el apocalíptico Anticristo?
Se han sabido presagios y prodigios se han visto
y parece inminente el retorno de Cristo.
La tierra está preñada de dolor tan profundo
que el soñador imperial, meditabundo,
sufre con las angustias del corazón del mundo.
Verdugos de ideales afligieron la tierra:
en un pozo de sombra la humanidad se encierra
con los rudos molosos del odio y de la guerra.
¡Oh, Señor Jesucristo! ¿Por qué tardas, qué esperas
para tender tu mano de la luz sobre las fieras
y hacer brillar al sol tus divinas banderas?
Surge de pronto y vierte la esencia de la vida
sobre tanta alma loca, triste o emperdernida
que, amante de tinieblas, tu dulce aurora olvida.
Vén, Señor, para hacer la gloria de ti mismo.
Vén con temblor de estrellas y horror de cataclismo,
vén a traer amor y paz sobre el abismo.
Y tu caballo blanco, que miró el visionario,
pase. Y suene el divino clarín extraordinario.
Mi corazón será brasa de tu incensario.
Un gran vuelo de cuervos mancha el azul celeste.
Un soplo milenario trae amagos de peste.
Se asesinan los hombres en el extremo Este.
¿Ha nacido el apocalíptico Anticristo?
Se han sabido presagios y prodigios se han visto
y parece inminente el retorno de Cristo.
La tierra está preñada de dolor tan profundo
que el soñador imperial, meditabundo,
sufre con las angustias del corazón del mundo.
Verdugos de ideales afligieron la tierra:
en un pozo de sombra la humanidad se encierra
con los rudos molosos del odio y de la guerra.
¡Oh, Señor Jesucristo! ¿Por qué tardas, qué esperas
para tender tu mano de la luz sobre las fieras
y hacer brillar al sol tus divinas banderas?
Surge de pronto y vierte la esencia de la vida
sobre tanta alma loca, triste o emperdernida
que, amante de tinieblas, tu dulce aurora olvida.
Vén, Señor, para hacer la gloria de ti mismo.
Vén con temblor de estrellas y horror de cataclismo,
vén a traer amor y paz sobre el abismo.
Y tu caballo blanco, que miró el visionario,
pase. Y suene el divino clarín extraordinario.
Mi corazón será brasa de tu incensario.
He was a Nicaraguan poet—perhaps the next best-known after Rubén Darío [amazing that a poor country with such high illiteracy and poverty can produce such great poetry]. His given name was Salomón de Jesus Selva – but he went by Salomón de la Selva which translates into English as “Solomon of the Jungle” .
I love his poem En Granada and I have posted my own translation of it. I first read it one night in 2000, in that very town itself, meditating under the 
fragrant smoke of a puro, knowing next to nothing about the poet. I did not know then that I would eventually find my own novia [in the traditional sense of that word], my own fabulous bride in Granada. And I learned more about Salomón de la Selva as well.
A very interesting life – he was proud of his tropical roots [hence the pen-name] but he also studied in the US and then he worked there as a Spanish professor. He had a romance with Edna St. Vincent Millay. He was a soldier in WWI on the British side. He supported Sandino’s revolt against the U.S. but he also chose to spend much of his life in North America. He did magnificent translations of Darío’s works into English. He was the Nicaraguan ambassador to France. He died in Paris and is buried in Nicaragua. I have visited his crypt there inside the stately cathedral of his birthplace and hometown León.
Granada is a beautiful town, moldering into its colonial Spanish foundations under the tropical glare and the hurricane downpours. The volcano Mombacho looms over the city – one of the earliest [founded 1524 by Francisco de Cordoba] continually inhabited Spanish cities in the New World. Granada is frequented by earth tremors, pulsed by booming cumbia and bachata music, cursed and blessed by blaring car horns, pestering beggars, gallant mestizos and lovely mestizas, scented with wafting odors of holy incense and tropical stagnation. I love the last line of the poem: . . . y Granada era Sion [and Granada was Zion].
Have you ever been to Granada, Nicaragua?
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