Translation for "víctimas del amor" to english

Víctimas del amor

• victims of love

Translation examples

victims of love

Cuando me casé, víctima del amor con el que trafican hace 2.000 años me recibieron con los brazos abiertos.
I was a victim of love, something you traffic with since 2.000 years. I was received with open arms.

—dijo ¡Víctima de la amistad!... ¡Pobre Malicorne! ¡Víctima del amor!
said she, "the victim of friendship! Poor Malicorne, the victim of love!"

No sabía que Nao, la pequeña sacerdotisa, había sido víctima del amor a primera vista, que a sus ojos, acostumbrados a la vista de hombres sólo en la forma de los peludos y grotescos sacerdotes de Opar, este extranjero en verdad parecía un dios.
He could not know that Nao, the little priestess, had been the victim of love at first sight, that to her mind and eyes, accustomed to the sight of males only in the form of the hairy, grotesque priests of Opar, this stranger appeared a god indeed.

descenderás una vez más a la cripta: la inexorable saña contra tu antigua grey y el placer de asistir a su afrentosa burla alentarán tu teje y desteje por el tráfago oscuro del corredor hasta los no auríferos, no revolucionarios edículos: contoneándose, abanicándose exageradamente a causa del calor o alzando las solapas de sus fourrures con cuitado estremecimiento de frío, intercambiando información en lenguaje histérico, empolvándose el rostro, componiéndose el pelo, emitiendo risillas, gorgoritos, suspiros, los cofrades discurren junto a sus centinelas hieráticas buscando ansiosamente su príncipe: su agitación extrema es la respuesta obvia a la no menos extrema represión de la tribu: fuerza centrífuga superior a la ley de gravedad comunal los ha impelido tal meteoritos errantes a la remota, subterránea basílica: esquirlas de gaditana explosión esparcidas por la rosa de los vientos, convocadas allí por un azar del destino!: el solo de la flauta las imanta y a él consagran su culto: míralas bien: su temeridad menosprecia los límites: sus antífonas, comuniones, plegarias se suceden al ritmo febril de quienes se saben condenados al alba y aspiran a sorbos la vida: más de cuatro siglos de estigma y baldón, cárcel, tormento, pira (desde el feroz, rencoroso decreto de la reina frígida y los autos de fe de su grotesca prole) han configurado la endémica tensión que los distingue de los restantes activistas del gremio: cadáveres a plazo de hitleriano ghetto (haces de leña, sambenito, mordaza, escapulario blanco, coroza de llamas), su reto delirante se extiende a todas las jurisdicciones del mundo: atavismo secular les impulsa al énfasis teatral y la hipérbole cuando componen altivamente el personaje de la triste prisionera de Tordesillas: la juandeorduñesca víctima del amor: en la grandilocuente interpretación de la actriz que encabezaba el reparto de la película: celando con manirrota ostentación de ademanes la ausente inmovilidad de su rey: el hermoso flamenco de blanco plumaje en el pecho y rojo sangriento en la espalda reproducido en las láminas de colores del sólito manual escolar: bípedo, vertebrado, de sangre caliente, corazón con aurículas y ventrículos, buen nadador y, según se tercie, nidófilo o nidífugo: adosado al muro, como los de su laya, con visible, calculado desdén: orificios nasales, ojillos penetrantes y vivos, boca quizá sin dientes, cigarrillo en el estuche del pico: alirroto, zancudo, parece descansar sobre un pie mientras recoge a trechos el otro y apoya indolentemente la suela en los desconchados y grietas de la pared: y con el mudo asenso de guardas y cortesanos, la no boreal aurora multiplica los demenciales gestos, envuelta en el nimbo de admiración y piedad de su trágicoesplendente sino: sus ojos brillan de picardía bajo el sutil velo negro, el burdo maquillaje se despinta y escurre, irrisorio, por la comisura de los labios: elevando hasta éstos el índice desplegado, murmurará una y mil veces que el rey no ha muerto, que nada más se ha dormido: con esa peculiarísima dicción de la pléyade de imitadoras que, huyendo de los rigores del país, florece, a mil leguas, en el recato y humildad del paraje: la historia es justiciera a veces y la Católica madre contemplaría horrorizada el rudo espectáculo: el desquite del execrado hermano y sus vilipendiados amigos: la escena diariamente se renueva sin cronista ni bardo y el omnímodo poder de tu minúscula actividad artesanal te deslumbra: el soliloquio fantasmal de las locas vengará la memoria del rey: bruscamente, anularás centurias de infamia de un simple trazo de pluma 11
you will descend into the crypt once again: the inexorable rage you feel against the flock to which you once belonged and the pleasure of witnessing the humiliating mockery to which it will be subjected will warm your heart as you weave in and out of the stream of people heading down the dark corridor toward the nonrevolutionary, non-gold-covered little shrines: waddling along, furiously fanning themselves because of the heat, or pulling up the lapels of their fur coats as they shiver in misery from the cold, exchanging information in a hysterical tone of voice, powdering their faces, combing their hair, emitting giggles, piping trills, sighs, the members of the confraternity wander over to their hieratic sentinels, anxiously searching for their prince: their extreme state of agitation is the obvious response to the no less extreme repression of their tribe: a centrifugal force stronger than the law of universal gravitation has propelled them, like stray meteorites, into this remote, subterranean basilica: fallout from some terrible explosion, scattered by the winds to every corner of the compass, gathered together here by a trick of fate!: the flute solo magnetizes them and they dedicate their devotions to it: take a good look at them: their temerity knows no bounds: their antiphonies, communions, supplications are supplanted by the feverish rhythm of those who know that they have been sentenced to be executed at dawn and imbibe life in tiny little sips: more than four centuries of disgrace and affronts, prison, torture, the stake (ever since the rabid, rancorous decree of a frigid queen and the autos-da-fé of her grotesque progeny) have gone into the creation of the endemic tension that distinguishes them from the other activists of the confraternity: corpses whose death sentence in Hitler’s ghetto was commuted (faggots, a sackcloth sambenito, a gag, a white scapular, a dunce cap of flames), their frenzied provocation extends to the farthest corners of the earth: a centuries-old atavism impels them to indulge in melodramatic histrionics and hyperbole, as when they arrogantly invent out of whole cloth the character of the sad royal prisoner of Tordesillas, the victim of love dreamed up by a film director and played to the hilt by the actress whose name headed the list of screen credits: concealing with extravagant gestures the imperturbable immobility of her king: the handsome Flemish flamingo, with pure white feathers on its breast and blood-red ones on its back, shown in the colored illustrations of the usual schoolroom textbooks: a warm-blooded, vertebrate biped, possessed of a heart with auricles and ventricles, a good swimmer, and either nidiphilous or nidifugous: leaning with his back to the wall, like other members of his species, with visible, deliberate scorn: clearly discernible nasal orifices, bright piercing little eyes, a perhaps toothless mouth, a cigarette dangling from his beak: wings folded, long-shanked, he appears to be perched on one foot as he draws the other one up from time to time and indolently rests the sole of it on the chinks and cracks in the wall: and with the silent assent of the palace guards and courtiers, the nonboreal Aurora who plays the part of Juana la Loca multiplies her demential gestures, enveloped in an aura of admiration and pity for her tragicosplendid fate: her eyes glisten roguishly beneath the thin black veil, her thick makeup dissolves and runs down the corners of her lips in ridiculous trickles: pointing her index finger at them, she will murmur over and over, a thousand times, that the king is not dead, he has merely fallen asleep: with that most peculiar diction shared by the starry horde of her imitators, which, having fled the rigors of the country, now flourishes, a thousand leagues away, in remote and humble surroundings: history is eminently just at times: and Isabella the Catholic mother will witness, horror-stricken, the cruel spectacle: the vengeance of the execrated sodomite brother and his vilified friends: the scene is repeated daily, with no chronicler and no bard, and the absolute power of your antlike craftsmanship dazzles you: the ghostly soliloquy of mad women will avenge the memory of the king: brusquely, with a simple stroke of your pen, you will cancel out centuries of infamy 11

las sombras movedizas de los camellos se perfilan en tierra a la rauda cadencia del trote mientras avanzáis por la estepa jordana alertas a la línea del ferrocarril: con los aún frescos laureles de tu victoria en Aqaba, investido ante la harca de un poder carismàtico, exaltado por las señas cercanas del enemigo: poseído del mismo ardor que tus hombres, expresándote en su brusco dialecto, resuelto to imitate their mental foundation y camaleónicamente take on the Arab skin: la fama publica ya tus proezas de experto destructor de locomotoras otomanas y darás la señal del asalto con una leve presión del índice en el gatillo: el cohete luminoso rehilará sobre el convoy dislocado, se abalanzarán los jinetes a la riquísima presa, relincharán los corceles como si hubieran barruntado el festín: la degollina se llevará a cabo con la implacable precisión de un rito: soldados y pasajeros serán despojados de su hacienda, sus cuerpos sustentarán la cruda voracidad de los buitres: encaramado al techo de los vagones, sobre tablas semejantes a las de la pasadera de obras públicas, iniciarás un ágil paso de danza celando con el rabillo del ojo tus propias sombras chinescas: movimientos y ademanes esbeltos nimbados de tutelar mesianismo enardecerán la pasión de tus huestes hasta un verboso delirio!: respondiendo a sus vítores y clamores con una gallarda oscilación del revólver en tanto que brincas de un techo a otro cubierto con los rubores y galas de tu disfraz: blanco de la cabeza a los pies, recatado por velos y gasas de fiancée, con el inspirado candor del agudísimo mago vaticano: saludando desde lo alto del bal(vag)ón a la armada de fieles, galvanizando sus fuerzas dispersas, incitándoles a nuevas y más fructuosas aventuras: bailando y bailando sobre las tablas con aire de prima donna, pontífice y travesti: los descarrilamientos se suceden a ritmo acelerado y el balazo alevoso de un rezagado te conferirá un espectacular bautismo de sangre: máculas bermejas ultrajarán el acendrado blancor de la tela con su viscosidad impura, pero tu aleatoria carrera de artista no se detendrá aquí: profeta del viejo sueño libertario al servicio de la expansión imperial inglesa?: o juandeorduñesca víctima del amor en los sibiles luxoriosos de Tordesillas?: nuevo Frégoli, proseguirás tu veloz metamorfosis saltando de una a otra cinta sin abandonar por eso un instante el surco genitivo de la escritura: con el asenso mudo de guardas y cortesanos multiplicarás los demenciales gestos envuelto en el halo de admiración de tu trágico-esplendente sino: tus ojos brillan de picardía bajo el sutil velo negro, el burdo maquillaje se despinta y escurre irrisorio por la comisura de los labios: elevando hasta ellos el índice desplegado, murmurarás una y mil veces que el rey no ha muerto, que nada más se ha dormido: no en el cavernoso subsuelo del cine sacudido por los temblores del metro aéreo: sobre las tablas que cubren la armazón de madera de los vagones y súbitamente se prolongan junto a la zanja brindando, solícitas, un paso oportuno a los peatones: lejos de la ruda y capciosa estepa jordana: en la jornada de estío parisiense que generosamente irradia sus ondas sobre los esclavizados operarios de la obra aferrados a sus útiles de trabajo mientras, repuesto de tus espejismos y trampantojos, avanzas al filiforme compás del bolígrafo por las calles desiertas de la ciudad: como El-Orens antes de su secreta misión en Deráa, tocado con niveo turbante, flotando en el vuelo de su gandura: tu afán de experiencias nómadas por todo el ámbito del Islam te conducirá naturalmente a batir el propio campo del enemigo: por la cercana rué d’Abou-kir, en busca de los alminares de Istanbul, a los acordes de la «Marcha turca».
the camels moving at a swift trot cast their shadows on the ground as you and your men advance across the barren plains of Jordan, carefully following the railway line: the laurels of your victory in Aqaba still fresh upon your brow, your person imbued, in the eyes of the harka, with a charismatic power, enhanced by the signs that the enemy is close at hand: possessed of the same fervor as your men, expressing yourself in their harsh dialect, resolved to imitate their mental foundation and take on the Arab skin like a chameleon: your prowess as an expert at blowing up Ottoman locomotives is already legendary, and you will give the signal for the attack with a slight pressure of your index finger on the trigger of your revolver: the bright flare will mount into the sky and burst above the scattered convoy, the horsemen will leap upon the valuable booty, the chargers will hinny as though they had already caught a whiff of the rich feast that will be forthcoming: the slaughter will be carried out with the implacable precision of a ceremonial rite: soldiers and passengers will be stripped of their possessions and their bodies fall victim to the cruel rapacity of vultures: climbing up on the top of the boxcars, standing on planks resembling those of the walkway of the public-works project, you will begin to execute a nimble dance step, watching out of the corner of your eye your own moving silhouette, as in a Chinese shadow play: elegant gestures surrounded by a halo of tutelary messianism that will inflame the passions of your legion to the point of a delirious outpouring of words!: responding to their huzzahs and shouts of victory with a bold flourish of your revolver as you leap from the roof of one boxcar to another in the full regalia of your disguise: clad in white from head to foot, concealed beneath the billowing tulle veil of a bride at the altar, with the inspired lily-white candor of the sharp-witted magus of the Vatican: waving from the lofty heights of your boxcar balcony to the assembled horde of the faithful, reassembling their scattered forces with your magnetic powers, spurring them on to further and more fruitful ventures: dancing back and forth across the boards with the air of a prima donna, a pontifex, and a transvestite: the derailments follow one upon the other with a stepped-up rhythm, and the treacherous gunshot wound inflicted upon you by a straggler in the rear guard of the enemy will confer upon you a spectacular blood baptism: bright red stains will sully the immaculate whiteness of your garments with their impure viscosity, but your perilous career as a star performer will not end here: a prophet of the age-old dream of freedom, in the service of imperial British expansion?: or a juandeorduñesque victim of love in the luxorious caverns of Tordesillas?: becoming another quick-change artist like the celebrated Frégoli, you will continue your swift metamorphosis, leaping from one film to another without thereby abandoning for a single instant the procreative rut of the written word: with the silent assent of the palace guards and courtiers you will multiply the demential gestures, enveloped in the aura of your tragicosplendid fate: your eyes glisten roguishly beneath the thin black veil, the thick makeup dissolves and runs down the corners of your lips in ridiculous trickles: raising your pointing index finger in their direction, you will murmur over and over, a thousand times, that the king is not dead, he has merely fallen asleep: not in the cavernous subsoil of the movie house rocked by the tremors of the nearby elevated: on the boards that cover the framework of the boxcars and suddenly are extended so that they run alongside the sewer trench being excavated, thus solicitously offering pedestrians a convenient walkway: far from the cruel and captious plains of Jordan: in the heat of a summer day in Paris that beams its burning rays down upon the enslaved laborers of the public-works project clutching their work tools as, having recovered from your (optical) illusions and the tricks your eyes have played on you, you continue onward like the thin trace of your ball-point pen along the deserted streets of the city: like El-Orens before his secret mission in Deráa, with a snow-white turban atop his head, floating along in his billowing gandurah: your eagerness for nomad experiences in the farthermost corners of Islam will naturally lead you to reconnoiter the enemy’s own camp: along the nearby rue d’Aboukir, in search of the minarets of Istanbul, to the tune of the “Turkish March”