nARRACIONES PANAMEÑAS - El arbol viejo

Autor: Salomón Ponce Aguilera (1908 - 1945).

Estilo: Narrativa indigenista y de crítica social, con un lenguaje realista y descriptivo.

Género de "El Árbol Viejo": Cuento literario de temática realista-social/indigenista.

Texto Original

Si mi querida Olma, fueron mis abuelos los que plantaron el árbol viejo de naranjo a cuya sombra corrieron felices nuestros años primeros; el árbol de flores de albura inmaculada, fragantes y hermosas como las esperanzas idas; el árbol de ramas seculares que en su conjunto convergente hacia el centro formaban las líneas perfectas de un dibujo clásico para una pila bautismal; el árbol de tronco recio que asentaba su fuerza en un solo pie de paquidermo, erizado a trechos de costras o verrugas semejantes a petromas; el árbol que fue testigo de mas de una historia intima que oyó más de una confidencia a nuestros padres, que calló nuestras travesuras, que sonrió con nuestra alegría, que siempre nos brindó su sombra y nos ofreció sus frutos de jugo riquisimo o nos amó, en fin, como amaban las viejas esclavas a todos los que nacían en la casa paterna, a sus amos, que, a pesar de serlo, supieron soportar regaños y aun azotes de manos que en otro tiempo no fueron si no para la cadena infamante y brutal.

Cafetran

If my dear Olma, it was my grandparents who planted the old orange tree in whose shade our first years ran happily; the tree of flowers of immaculate sapwood, fragrant and beautiful as the hopes gone; the tree of secular branches that as a whole converged towards the center formed the perfect lines of a classic drawing for a baptismal font; the tree of sturdy trunk that settled its strength in a single foot of pachyderm, bristling with stretches of scabs or warts similar to petromas; the tree that witnessed more than one intimate story that heard more than one confession to our parents, that silenced our antics, that smiled with our joy, that always offered us its shade and offered us its fruits of rich juice or loved us, in short, as the old slaves loved all those who were born in the father's house, their masters, who, despite being so, knew how to withstand scolds and even hand lashes that in the past did not were if not for the infamous and brutal chain.

OMEGAT

Yes, my dear Olma, it was my grandparents who planted the old orange tree in whose shade our early years ran happily; the tree with immaculate white flowers, fragrant and beautiful like hopes gone by; the tree with centuries-old branches that converged towards the centre, forming the perfect lines of a classic design for a baptismal font; the tree with a sturdy trunk that rooted its strength in a single pachyderm foot, bristling with patches of scabs or warts resembling petromas; the tree that witnessed more than one intimate story, that heard more than one confidence from our parents, that kept quiet about our mischief, that smiled with our joy, that always offered us its shade and its delicious fruit, or loved us, in short, as the old slaves loved all those born in the paternal home, their masters, who, despite being so, knew how to endure scoldings and even beatings from hands that in another time were only for the infamous and brutal chain.

Ya murió. Más antes de que te cuente su fin trágico, déjame evocar los recuerdos adormecidos de la infancia, aquellos recuerdos innombrables de los cuales somos santuario innovable a través de la distancia y del tiempo, aquellos recuerdos que se apegaron a nuestra alma para morir con nosotros a semejanza de ciertas plantas que hincan sus raíces en los muros de solido templo y lo quebrantan y vencen más pronto que la barra o la pica. Quince o veinte pulgadas tendría el diámetro de su base, y como el tronco era hueco, abierto por una portada que tenia todo el delineamiento de una perfecta ventana gótica, allí en aquel recinto adecuado para la habitación de ave nocturna, halló nuestra fantasia cauce a sus ensueños infantiles y allí se realizaron, por modo vago e inconsciente la realidad de lo pasado que aprendimos, las enseñanzas dolorosas de lo que fue entonces deseado porvenir.

He's dead. But before I tell you its tragic end, let me evoke the dormant memories of childhood, those unspeakable memories of which we are innovative sanctuary through distance and time, those memories that clung to our soul to die with us in the likeness of certain plants that sink their roots in the walls of solid temple and break it and conquer it sooner than the bar or the pike. Fifteen or twenty inches would have the diameter of its base, and as the trunk was hollow, opened by a cover that had all the outline of a perfect Gothic window, there in that enclosure suitable for the room of a nocturnal bird, he found our fantasy channel to his childhood dreams and there were realized, in a vague and unconscious way, the reality of the past that we learned, the painful teachings of what was then desired to come.

He is dead now. But before I tell you about his tragic end, let me evoke the dormant memories of childhood, those unnameable memories of which we are an inviolable sanctuary through distance and time, those memories that clung to our souls to die with us, like certain plants that take root in the walls of a solid temple and break them down and defeat them sooner than the bar or the pickaxe. Its base would have been fifteen or twenty inches in diameter, and as the trunk was hollow, opened by a doorway that had all the outlines of a perfect Gothic window, there, in that enclosure suitable for the dwelling of a nocturnal bird, our imagination found a channel for its childhood dreams, and there, in a vague and unconscious way, the reality of the past we had learned and the painful lessons of what was then desired for the future were realised.

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