Poesia kaiera
Poesia kaiera
Edna St. Vincent Millay
itzulpena: Ana Morales
2021, poesia
64 orrialde
978-84-17051-65-5
Edna St. Vincent Millay
1892-1950
 
 

 

Cave Canem

 

Postaz gogaitua, telefonoz jazarria, urrats azkarrez aurreratua, mahukatik heldua, arrotzen zerbitzari,

Lehiaren eta nahasmenduaren erdian maitalea eta laguna isilik doazelarik iragan iritsi ezinera,

Denbora botatzen dut pozarren oilaskoekin patio narras batean.

 

Herabetasun penagarriaz, ezinikusirik ez sortzeko ezintasun baldarraz, ezta haserre goratutako ahotsik baztergarrienei,

Antipatikoenei ere, maitasunik gabeko aurpegiei ere,

Saihestu egiten dut bisitari mehatxagarria,

Ihes egiten diot abilki izkinetan,

Hura gorrotatuz, ene gurari onenekin;

 

Aurrez aurre jartzen bazait, ez nadin behartuta egon esatera inola ere ez dena egia:

Ongi etorria dela; ez daukadala zereginik;

Eta ez nadin behartuta egon jesartzera potoetako arrosak kutxan zimeltzen edo sonetoa hozten den bitartean

Sudurra begirunez makurturik

Ume nintzenetik nire etxeko hagetan txirikordetan zintzilik egon direnak bezalako filosofia ihartuen aurrean.

 

Onberatasun arrastoren bat, duda barik,

Egon liteke horretan.

Baina ez nahikoa txori bati bizirik eusteko.

 

Badu arrakalaren gertuko akats bat

Halako portaerak.

 

Cave Canem

Importuned through the mails, accosted over the telephone, overtaken by running footsteps, caught by the sleeve, the / servant of strangers, / While amidst the haste and confusion lover and friend quietly step into the unreachable past, / I throw bright time to chickens in an untidy yard. // Through foul timidity, through a gross indisposition to excite the ill-will of even the most negligible, / Disliking voices raised in anger, faces with no love in them, / I avoid the looming visitor, / Flee him adroitly around corners, / Hating him, wishing him well; // Lest if he confront me I be forced to say what is in no wise true: / That he is welcome; that I am unoccupied; / And forced to sit while the potted roses wilt in the crate or the sonnet cools / Bending a respectful nose above such dried philosophies / As have hung in wreaths from the rafters of my house since I was a child. // Some trace of kindliness in this, no doubt, / There may be. / But not enough to keep a bird alive. // There is a flaw amounting to a fissure / In such behaviour.