I must confess I am a little "special" when it comes to translating poetry. I have always believed that there are only to possible choices in that matter: making a prose translation or trying to create from the scratch a new poem in the translated language that respects the meaning of the original but is not a direct translation. I had the chance to put my money in that idea with some of Robert E. Howard's poems.

Here you find the one called "Cimmeria" and my Spanish reinterpretation.

by Robert E. Howard

I remember
The dark woods, masking slopes of sombre hills;
The grey clouds’ leaden everlasting arch;
The dusky streams that flowed without a sound,
And the lone winds that whispered down the passes.

Vista on vista marching, hills on hills,
Slope beyond slope, each dark with sullen trees,
Our gaunt land lay. So when a man climbed up
A rugged peak and gazed, his shaded eye
Saw but the endless vista – hill on hill,
Slope beyond slope, each hooded like its brothers.

It was a gloomy land that seemed to hold
All winds and clouds and dreams that shun the sun,
With bare boughs rattling in the lonesome winds,
And the dark woodlands brooding over all,
Not even lightened by the rare dim sun
Which made squat shadows out of men; they called it
Cimmeria, land of Darkness and deep Night.

It was so long ago and far away
I have forgot the very name men called me.
The axe and flint-tipped spear are like a dream,
And hunts and wars are shadows. I recall
Only the stillness of that sombre land;
The clouds that piled forever on the hills,
The dimness of the everlasting woods.
Cimmeria, land of Darkness and the Night.

Oh, soul of mine, born out of shadowed hills,
To clouds and winds and ghosts that shun the sun,
How many deaths shall serve to break at last
This heritage which wraps me in the grey
Apparel of ghosts? I search my heart and find
Cimmeria, land of Darkness and the Night.

de Robert E. Howard

Recuerdo mil bosques sombríos,
penumbra en colinas abiertas al viento,
el arco plomizo de nubes sin cuento,
arroyos adustos, torrentes umbríos
y un valle erizado de cerros baldíos.

Tras esas colinas, mil más se agazapan,
laderas cuajadas de bosques huraños,
paisaje de picos abruptos y extraños.
Madre feroz, madrastra postrada,
Cimeria. De viento y de noche preñada.

En ella los vientos confluyen convulsos
y sueños sin dueño rehúyen el sol.
Son soplos sombríos que marcan el son
de ramas crujientes en bosques adustos
y sombras quebradas en rotos arbustos.

Cimeria. De noche y de sombra engendrada.
Recuerdos de un hacha de borde afilado,
de lanza clavada en sangrante costado,
de denso silencio que a todos abraza
y extiende en las nubes su espesa coraza.

Cimeria. Morada de vientos eternos.
Herencia inasible que no me abandona,
fantasma irredento que nunca perdona,
mortaja que aplasta feroz mis empeños,
desgarra miradas, derrota los sueños.