Just ask Sophia Coppola: something lost in translation is the greatest lament we may never have enough understanding to express.
As I explore poetry in Spanish and attempt to translate in my novice capacity, I'm so frustrated by the beauty that is lost on me. But there is also something strangely beautiful about the scattering of words that just sit and stare, waiting for my brain to make sense of them in an order that evokes the most feeling. The exaggerated simplicity imparts some Hemingway-like characteristic of truth without embellishment and painful excess. It's lovely and a bit fun, es la verdad.
"Yo quiero salir del mundo
Por la puerta natural:
En un carro de hojas verdes
A morir me han de llevar.
No me pongan en lo oscuro
A morir como un traidor:
¡Yo soy bueno, y como bueno
Moriré de cara al sol!"
"I wish to leave the world
By its natural door;
In my tomb of green leaves
They are to carry me to die.
Do not put me in the dark
To die like a traitor;
I am good, and like a good thing
I will die with my face to the sun."
- Jose Martí, "Yo Quiero Salir de Mundo", A Morir [To Die] (1894)