Poesia kaiera
Basa bugainbilea
Garai batean triste egoten nintzen
Kalkutan; udako egun gutxi batzuk
mantso pasatzen zirenak, aldarte txarrez,
hilkutxaren atzetik doazen erostariak legez.
Egun haietan oheak ere ez zidan atsedenik ematen;
aitzitik, itsaso haserreak bezala,
bere olatuen gainean astintzen ninduen,
eta nolako intziriak nireak, nolako auhenak,
beste herri bateko gizon baten miran
etengabe… Gero, luzaro
gabe, nire maitasuna zimeldu zen,
zeren ibilaldi luzeak egiten bainituen,
inoiz ikusi gabeko bideetan ibili,
xarmagatik atsegin nituen aurpegiak ikusi…
Mundu ona da, eta dibertsioz betea.
Kaleetan ibili nintzen, itsasoaren ondoan, non
gabarrak ur gainean dauden, azpiak usteltzen ari;
zaborra, usteltzen; arrain hilak, usteltzen.
Hilbideko gauzen usaina aditu nuen,
usteltzen ari hilotzen kiratsa.
Eta ibili nintzen kale haietan, non bular faltsu
handiegiko gau neskak paseoan zebiltzan
gora eta behera, argi horien pean,
gizonei irribarre melengak eginez.
Eta ibili nintzen kaleetan, kanposantu zaharren ondoan,
non hildakoak hain dauden hilak, ezen tonbarriek ere
haien izenak galdu, euripean, eta orain zurbil baitaude, eta hori nola hortz groteskoak
—hortz zaharren uzta—, eta inoiz ez dago erostaririk
lore sorta bat aldatzen edo malko bat isurtzen haiengatik.
Baina antzinako tonben alboan basailen batzuk
ikusi nituen loratzen, eta basa bugainbilea gorria
minareteetan gora. Ibili nintzen; ikusi
eta entzun nuen; hiriak bere burua
bezatu zuen niretzat, eta orduan,
ukitu berezi baten gosea apaldu zitzaidan,
eta egun batean arrosak bidali nizkion,
eta gauean lo egin nuen, ametsik gabeko
lo isil bat, eta goizean esnatu nintzen, libre.
The Wild Bougainvillea
There was a time when I / Was sad in Calcutta, a few summer days / That passed slowly, and / Moodily, like the mourners behind a bier. Days / When even my bed gave / No rest, but like a troubled sea, tossed me on / Its waves, and how I groaned / And moaned, and constantly yearned for a man from / Another town... Then, by / And by, my love wilted, for I took long walks, / Walked roads I had never / Seen before, saw faces I liked for their charm. / It is a good world, and / Packed with distractions. I walked through streets beside / The sea, where the barges / Float, their undersides rotting and the garbage / Rot, and the dead fish rot, / And, I smelt the smell of dying things and the / Heavy smell of rotting / Dead, I walked on streets where the night-girls with sham / Obtrusive breasts sauntered / And under yellow lamps, up-and-down wandered / Beaming their sickly smiles / At men. And, on streets near old cemeteries / Where the dead are so dead / That even their tombstones have lost their names in / The rains, and are pale now / And yellowed like grotesque teeth—a harvest of / Old teeth—and no mourner / Ever sheds a bouquet for them or a tear / But, I did see beside / The olden tombs some marigolds bloom and the / Wild red bougainvillea / Climbing their minarets. I walked, I saw and / I heard, the city tamed / Itself for me, and then my hunger for a / Particular touch waned / And one day I sent him some roses and slept / Through the night, a silent / Dreamless sleep and woke up in the morning, free.