Poesia kaiera
Poesia kaiera
William Butler Yeats
itzulpena: Juan Kruz Igerabide
2022, poesia
64 orrialde
978-84-17051-86-0
William Butler Yeats
1865-1939
 
Poesia kaiera
William Butler Yeats
itzulpena: Juan Kruz Igerabide
2022, poesia
64 orrialde
978-84-17051-86-0
aurkibidea
 

 

Bigarren etorrera

 

Jira eta bira, handituz doan espiralean,

belatzak ezin entzun belatz-jabearen deia;

gauzak gainbehera datoz, ezin eutsi erdiguneari,

anarkia abailtzen ari da mundura,

odolezko uholdea dator, eta alde orotan

hondora doa errugabetasunaren erritua,

onenek uste sendoa galdu dute, eta txarrenak

grinaz eta bizitasunez beterik daude.

 

Gertu dago, inondik ere, errebelazioren bat,

Bigarren Etorrera ziur asko gertu dago.

Bigarren Etorrera! Hitz horiek esan orduko,

Spiritus Mundi-ren irudi erraldoi batek

ikusmena lausotzen dit; non edo han, basamortuko harean,

lehoi-gorputza eta giza burua duen irudi bat,

eguzkiak bezalako begirada hits eta gupidagabearekin,

izter mantsoak mugitzen ari da, inguruan

hegazti haserretuen itzalak biraka dituela.

Badator berriro gaua, baina orain badakit

hogei mendeko harrizko loa sumindu zuela

sehaska kulunkari bateko amesgaiztoak.

Eta zer piztia gaizto, bere azkeneko orduan,

doa arrastaka Belenen jaiotzera?

 

The Second Coming

Turning and turning in the widening gyre / The falcon cannot hear the falconer; / Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; / Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, / The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere / The ceremony of innocence is drowned; / The best lack all conviction, while the worst / Are full of passionate intensity. // Surely some revelation is at hand; / Surely the Second Coming is at hand. / The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out / When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi / Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert / A shape with lion body and the head of a man, / A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, / Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it / Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds. / The darkness drops again; but now I know / That twenty centuries of stony sleep / Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, / And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, / Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?