“A mi Patria”

Written by Clemente Althuas in 1858 Peru. Translated by Griffin Brown.

This poem explores the desolate mindsets of the Peruvians as they began to rebuild their country post gaining independence. Spain had left them defenseless, leaving them in a dark place economically after the war. Gaining independence in 1821, Peruvians struggled to rebuild after the detrimental loss of assets from the conflict.

My elusive fierce condition, which in vain
I wanted to win with an impossible feat,
banishes me from sweet human contact,
and I miss love and friendship.

They can't find a remedy at all,
and more and more are increasing every day
This my universal deep boredom
and endearing, brilliant melancholy.

We never even hinted at pleasure
The heavens gave my sad life;
I and Sadness are inseparable,
and from the same mother, twin sons.

Mysterious old and slow illness,
who fought science in vain,
ceaselessly consumes and torments me,
and it doesn't kill me or make me live consciously.

Cruel fate has kept me away
almost half of my sad life
from the native soil and the maternal side,
that not even for a moment my love forgets.

Black Envy stalks me with treachery;
and bathed in the Orc's poison,
the fierce slander, arrow after arrow,
throwing it against my defenseless breast.

And although you see me in my youthful years,
anticipated the bitter experience,
I suffered more cruel disappointments
than the longest old age can count.

And I still lack perhaps the only shield
that shields my embattled chest,
for humbled by my wit I doubt,
and I suspect pride and illusion.

And another misfortune overwhelms my heart,
more than all fatal, strange and serious,
that the pen cannot be trusted to paper,
nor the wind the lip, and no one knows.

And my ardent apprehensive fantasy,
as if there were so many evils
not enough, he doubles them even more,
and prolongs them all and advances them.

But so many sorrows that afflict me, nothing
are compared to the pain of seeing you
so unhappy, oh homeland, and humiliated,
and to the point of not being able to change your luck.

Yes, yours are my greatest evils;
and if you were strong and happy and great,
those who only touch me, although such,
smiling will look like chimeras.

For you whom I adore without fruit,
My blood turns anger into gall,
and my pity melts into tears,
and even my reason, disturbed, goes delirious.

You are the eternal thought of my days,
and you are the sleepless night of my life,
You would embitter my sweetest pleasure,
if pleasures were possible for me.

And I would like to be a hero for you, Roman,
and leaving the lute that pleases in vain,
in your defense, raise a strong hand
with the triumphant saving sword.

And in my extreme loving madness,
of a god, sometimes I long for power
to change the face of your destiny
and make you queen of the immense land.

Ah! With all my blood, I deserve you!
Could at least divine mercy,
and like Curcio to Rome, with my death
save you, oh homeland, from imminent ruin!