prislander13 offered to translate a previous post of mine, a poem, and he did. So.. for any Spanish-challenged readers out there, here is one man's interpretation of "desencarnación." (Not just any man, though — prislander!) Thanks, prislander.

I have translated many a poem and I have to say — translating poetry sucks! Poetry, for the most part, doesn't translate well. Granted, Pablo Neruda, translated into ANY language, is still brilliant, be even he loses something in translation. And believe me — I am NO Neruda... nothing even close... and bad poetry is bad poetry in ANY language. So, don't blame the translator, but do consider the translation.

Take the title, for example — desencarnación. What is the proper translation? We will have to leave it title-less for now. Desencarnación is the noun form of the verb desencarnar — the act of desencarnando — which, literally, means two things. First, it means the act of stripping something of its meat — as you would a turkey on thanksgiving day, or as a vulture would do to a cow carcass. However you like. But... that's not all. It also means to grow tired of something. A lovely word indeed. What is the English equivalent? I do not know.

And then there is the simple verb "gustar," which is repeated throughout the poem. The translator was uncertain as to which approach to take with the word. Is it to like? To love? To fancy? He went with fancy until the end. And interesting approach. Thus I left it as is. Though, I must say, I'm not sure I would have used the word fancy had I actually written it in English. On the other hand, I'm quite sure that I would not have ever written it in English, so I suppose the word fancy is as good as any other.

So.. without any further delay... desencarnación...

I fancy your absence
For during it you are nearest,
Flooding all beyond my eyelids
And evoking a hazy paroxysm.

I fancy not touching you
For I can then keep the secret
Of those kisses you never gave me,
And the lust endures and doesn’t fade.

I fancy your quietness
For I cannot then grow tired of your voice,
And I do not cede to the temptation
Of repeating all those sweet but tired words.

I fancy it that you are not mine
Because I could never hold you like this, dearest,
Never as real as in my dreams
...and dreams will never undermine poetry.

I like dreaming of you
For I can avoid the disenchantment,
The disillusion, and all those other dises
While failing to catch my breath.

I love waiting for you
For I can feel my heart implode,
And the mere mockery exposes me
To the eternal beauty of this grand illusion.