Poesia kaiera
Okindegira bidean
[Rio de Janeiro]
Beste gau batzuetan egiten duen eran
aztertu ordez itsasoa
ilargiak Avenida Copacabanako txoko
ikusgarrietara beheratu du soa;
berari berria zaio baina ohikoa da ikuspegia.
Ilargia etzanda dago tranbia-kable lasaietan.
Azpian, auto aparkatuen goitik beherako
lerroen artean bihurritzen dira trenbideak.
(Eztainuzko larruek jostailuzko puxika
bigun eta hil-hurrenen irideszentzia daukate).
Trenbidea merkurio-putzu batean amaitzen da;
ilargiaren uneko magnetismoa bitarte,
aireratu eta nebulosa urrunetan
matazatzen dira kableak.
Okindegiko argiak ahulak dira. Gure
elektrizitate errazionatuan,
badirudi pastel biribilak konortea galtzear daudela—
bakoitzak begi zuri, glasatu bat du zut.
Tarta likatsuak kolore gorri saminekoak dira.
Erosi, erosi, zer erosiko dut?
Orain arto-irinak
aizuntzen duenez garizkoa, ogi-barrek
sukar horiaren biktimak dirudite
ospitale-areto betean etzanda.
“Esne-opilak” gomendatu ditu
itxura gaixoti berbereko okinak, oraindik epel
eta esnez eginda baitaude, dioenez.
Besoan haurtxo bat eramatea legez.
Almendrondo faltsuaren hosto
larrutsuen azpian, puta heldugabe bat
dantzan ari da, sukartsu, atomo bat bezala:
txa-txa, txa-txa, txa-txa...
Nire apartamentu parean
gizon beltz bat itzal beltzean eserita dago,
alkandora jasotzen ari da saihets beltz,
ikusezinean daraman benda erakusteko.
Auto-istripu bateko gas-arrastoak nola
kolpatu nau cachaça-arrastoak.
Zentzugabekeria biribilak esaten ari da gizona.
Ipini berri, dir-dir egiten du benda zuriak.
Nire diru bikainetik zazpi zentabo
eman dizkiot, ohiturak atera dit
“Gabon” bat. Oi, ohitura gaiztoa!
Ez al dago hitz egoki edo argitsuagorik?
Going to the Bakery [Rio de Janeiro]
Instead of gazing at the sea / the way she does on other nights, / the moon looks down the Avenida / Copacabana at the sights, // new to her but ordinary. / She leans on the slack trolley wires. / Below, the tracks slither between / lines of head-to-tail parked cars. // (The tin hides have the iridescence / of dying, flaccid toy balloons.) / The tracks end in a puddle of mercury; / the wires, at the moon’s // magnetic instances, take off / to snarl in distant nebulae. / The bakery lights are dim. Beneath / our rationed electricity, // the round cakes look about to faint— / each turns up a glazed white eye. / The gooey tarts are red and sore. / Buy, buy, what shall I buy? // Now flour is adulterated / with cornmeal, the loaves of bread / lie like yellow-fever victims / laid out in a crowded ward. // The baker; sickly too, suggests / the “milk rolls,” since they still are warm / and made with milk, he says. They feel / like a baby on the arm. // Under the false-almond tree’s / leathery leaves, a childish puta / dances, feverish as an atom: / chá-cha, chá-cha, chá-cha… // In front of my apartment house / a black man sits in a black shade, / lifting his shirt to show a bandage / on his black, invisible side. // Fumes of cachaça knock me over, / like gas fumes from an auto-crash. / He speaks in perfect gibberish. / The bandage glares up, white and fresh. // I give him seven cents in my / terrific money, say “Good night” / from force of habit. Oh, mean habit! / Not one word more apt or bright?