Poesia kaiera
Aurkibidea
Aurkibidea
Larunbat arratsaldeetan ilara osatzen genuen
Loudanen harategiaren aurrean. Txahal haragi gorria, listari zuria,
Paper marroia bilgoak egiteko zuzen
Salmahaiaren ertzarekin ebakitzen zena.
Saiheskiak eta berna-hezurrak
Bertatik bertara bota, bildu eta begizta txiki batekin txukun lotuak,
Baina artean odola zeriela. Pisu hila zintzilik,
Inoiz uste izango nuena baino askoz ere astunagoa,
Nire aitak xemaikoz xemaiko ordaindu bitartean.
Larunbat arratsaldeetan halaber bertako B-Gizonek,
Arlote arren lanean, herria hartuta,
Auzotar armatuak, jo goiak eta jo beheak desfilatzen,
Batzuek aitari agur-keinua egiten zioten, pasaeran,
Tiro egin izan baliote bezala eta nahita huts egin
Edo, une horretan bederen, zein sokakoa den ez balekite bezala.
The Nod
Saturday evenings we would stand in line / In Loudan's butcher shop. Red beef, white string, / Brown paper ripped straight off for parcelling / Along the counter edge. Rib roast and shin / Plonked down, wrapped up, and bow-tied neat and clean / But seeping blood. Like dead weight in a sling, / Heavier far than I had been expecting / While my father shelled out for it, coin by coin. // Saturday evenings too the local B-Men, / Unbuttoned but on duty, thronged the town, / Neighbours with guns, parading up and down, / Some nodding at my father almost past him / As if deliberately they'd aimed and missed him / Or couldn't seem to place him, not just then.