Poesia kaiera
Hegalean lo
Agian tristura handiren bat ekiditeko,
Berrezarkuntza tragedia batean heroiak oihukatzen duen gisara “Lo egin!
Oi sakon lo egiterik banu eta hala dena ahaztu!”
egiten dugu hegaz, itsasertz gabeko hiriaz gaindi,
zorutik gorantz uso batek egiten duen moduan
auto batek klaxona jotzean edo ate batek durundi egiten duenean, ametsen
atea, bizitza maitasun koloreanitzetan iraunarazten
eta denak gezur ederrak hizkuntza ezberdinetan.
Beldurra aienatzen da halaber, porlana nola, eta zu
Atlantiko gainean zara. Non da Espainia? Non da
nor? Guda Zibila esklaboak askatzeko borrokatu zen,
ezta? Bat-bateko astindu batek grabitateaz oroitarazten zaitu
eta giza maitasunarekiko zure kokapenaz. Baina hau da
jainkoak, espekulatzen, zurturik dauden lekua.
Babesgabe bihurtzen zarelarik aske zara, sinets dezakezu
hori? Inoiz ez aurpegi baten borroka tristera esnatzea?
Handitasun inpertsonalaren gainetik bidaiatzea beti,
kanpo egoteko, betiko, ez -n ezta -rako ere!
Begiek lotan direla haizeak mugituko balitu bezala egiten dute bira
eta betazalek leunki egiten kliska hego baten moduan.
Mundua iceberg bat da, hainbeste da ikusezin!
eta zen eta da, eta are forma oraindik, lotan egon daiteke
halaber. Ezaugarri horiek hildako pertsona maitatu baten izotzean
irarri ziren, abiadaz eta espazioaz
amets egiten duen eskultorea zara, zure eskuak bakarrik egin zezakeen hau.
Jakin-nahia, desiraren esku pasiozkoa. Hilik,
edo lotan? Ba al da abiadura nahikorik? Eta, amilduz,
zure kabuz lortutako guztiari egiten diozu uko,
bakarka nabigatzearen erresumari, zeren esnatu behar baituzu
eta zure epeltasuna arnastu irudi maitatu honetan
hilik egonda edo desagertuta soilik,
espazioa desagertzen ari den bitartean eta zure singulartasuna.
Sleeping on the wing
Perhaps it is to avoid some great sadness, / as in a Restoration tragedy the hero cries “Sleep! / Ofor a long sound sleep and so forget it!” / that one flies, soaring above the shoreless city, / veering upward from the pavement as a pigeon / does when a car honks or a door slams, the door / of dreams, life perpetuated in parti-colored loves / and beautiful lies all in different languages. // Fear drops away too, like the cement, and you / are over the Atlantic. Where is Spain? where is / who? The Civil War was fought to free the slaves, / was it? A sudden down-draught reminds you of gravity / and your position in respect to human love. But / here is where the gods are, speculating, bemused. / Once you are helpless, you are free, can you believe / that? Never to waken to the sad struggle of a face? / to travel always over some impersonal vastness, / to be out of, forever, neither in nor for! // The eyes roll asleep as if turned by the wind / and the lids flutter open slightly like a wing. / The world is an iceberg, so much is invisible! / and was and is, and yet the form, it may be sleeping / too. Those features etched in the ice of someone / loved who died, you are a sculptor dreaming of space / and speed, your hand alone could have done this. / Curiosity, the passionate hand of desire. Dead, / or sleeping? Is there speed enough? And, swooping, / you relinquish all that you have made your own, / the kingdom of your self sailing, for you must awake / and breathe your warmth in this beloved image / whether it’s dead or merely disappearing, / as space is disappearing and your singularity.