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LA BATALLA DE LTZENUna estampa histrica de Carl Snoilsky
adaptada y traducida del sueco por Sandra Dermark
Se han enfrentado al amanecer
del da otoal que raya.Se oye tronar desde las trincheras,
rayos en la niebla griscea.
En vencer, en vencer y en nada mses en lo que cada uno
piensa,
hasta el jinete ms modesto, aunquedel corcel derribado sea,
y, mientras de su montura cae,
se lanza a por l el piqueroa quien los cascos iban a
aplastar:
los dos yacen ahora en el suelo.
El soldado raso no decide, no,vive por morir y dar muerte
el caudillo ve a los suyos cedery echa su fatdica suerte.
All est! Ondea el penacho azul!
Cabalga a galope tendido!Su augusto porte y coleto de satnatraen
a amigos y enemigos.
Se pone al mando del ala que cede,se expone en primera fila.
Arriesga su vida como un hombre ms,y su vaina est vaca.
Le llevan las alas de la tempestadadelante. Densa es la
niebla.
Las balas resuenan al dar en corazas,y otros disparos
contestan.
Adelante, jinetes del septentrin!Adelante, hijos de
Alemania!
En vano, en vano: quedan atrs.De pronto, alguien grita: El rey
sangra!
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Nadie de los suyos consigui seguirentre enemigos al herido.
La ola de coraceros y oscuridadse trag el coleto amarillo.
Un clamor que llega hasta el corazn:Gustavo, nuestro rey y
padre!
Unidas, rugiendo, avanzan sus dosbrigadas, pues hay que
vengarle.
Ya huye el croata, se rinde el valn,se entierra en cados y
escoriadel fridlands el enfriado can:
el mrtir tendr su victoria.
Faltaba en su cancin el verso final,aquel que las gestas
ensalce
los que le lloran cumplen con su deber,pues ellos lo escriben
con sangre.
Han vencido y con muy bella procesinhonran a su amado
caudillo,
mas los cados brillan por su ausencia:una minora son los
vivos.
No lejos de Ltzen, al atardecer,con lgrimas en las mejillas,
vi en la niebla aparecer esta visinsangrienta, que ahora se
disipa.
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THE BATTLE OF LTZENA historical tableau by Carl Snoilsky
translated from the Swedish by Sandra Dermarkon the 2nd of
September 2013
(Dedicated to Juan Carlos Ruiz with sincere admiration)
With thunder and lightning, two armies have clashedat daybreak,
one autumn morrow.
Through thick gray fog, gunfire has violently flashed,stifling
the woundeds cries of sorrow.
On winning, on winning, on daring to dareis hell-bent the mind
of each rider,
though he lose the grip on the reins of his mare,
and rashly dismount, in a stride, her.
As the heavy cuirassier falls to the ground,the pikeman, who
would stand defeated,
sees his chance and thrusts his blade, turning around:thus,
rider and steed are mistreated.
The common soldier rushes into the fray:his duty reads dying or
slaying.
The commander watches his men the game play,
and soon heavy cards hes seen playing.
There he rides, his blue plume flutters! Lovely lad!Cool eyes,
every muscle in tension!
The tall, dashing figure in bright doublet claddraws friends and
enemies attention!
Thus he takes command of his faltering wing,exposed like a
leader of twenty.
Like a young lieutenant, risks takes the blond king:his swords
drawn, his scabbard is empty.
Hes shuttled by thunderstorm wings through the ranks,into the
fog, into the fire.
Like hail, many a bullet on a breastplate clankswhere enemy
units conspire.
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Onward, my brave Swedish cavalry!Onward, comrades of German
breeding!
In vain they cant catch up their leader dont see...
then, suddenly, hear: The Kings bleeding!
Into the dark bosom of Wallensteins troopno one the wounded
rider followed.
The yellow doublet was, at one fell swoop,by the clanking iron
wave swallowed.
Then, a rising clamour sears flesh and bone:Gustavus! Our
father! Our leader!
Thus, his brigades combine: he wont die alone.
They roar, rushing forward, dear reader.
Croatians retreat and Walloons take to flight,and, buried in
heaps of slain sinners,
the Friedlanders cannons are hidden from sight:the martyrs men
shall be the winners.
The last word was missing in his epic song:the word that crowns
every achievement.
The mourners have done their duty, right or wrong:
they wrote it in blood and bereavement.
Theyve won. On the fields, with a lovely parade,they honour
their beloved leader,
but most of them have fallen within the glade:the living are
few, my dear reader.
On the plains of Ltzen, by faint evening light,in cold, foggy
early November,
I saw such a bloody, violent sight,that I, to this day, still
remember.
