Poesia kaiera
Adrienne Rich
itzulpena: Maialen Berasategi
Poesia kaiera
Adrienne Rich
itzulpena: Maialen Berasategi
2017, poesia
64 orrialde
978-84-92468-95-9
Adrienne Rich
1929-2012
 
 

 

Zuhaitzak

 

Barruko zuhaitzak kanpora doaz, basora

hainbeste egun hutsik egon den baso horretara

non ezin zen txoririk pausatu

ez intsekturik gorde

ez eguzkiak ere oinak itzaletan sartu;

baso hori, hainbeste gau hutsik egona,

zuhaitzez beteta egongo da goizerako.

 

Gau guztian sustraiak lanean

portxeko zoruko

arrakaletatik askatu nahian.

Hostoak tenk kristalerantz

adaxkak zurrun eginahalaren eginahalaz

adar luze bihurrituak teilatupean nahaspila

senda-agiria jaso berri duten pazienteak bezala

erdi nahastuta

klinikako aterantz.

 

Barruan eserita nago, portxeko ateak zabalik

gutun luzeak idazten

baina doi-doi idatzi dut nola basoa

badoan etxetik.

Gaua fresko, ilargi betea dir-dir

zeru oraindik garbian

hosto- eta liken-usaina

aditzen da oraindik geletatik ahots baten gisan.

Xuxurlaz beterik daukat burua

baina isilduko dira biharko.

Entzun. Puskatzen ari da kristala.

Badoaz zuhaitzak estropezuka

gauerantz. Haiekin batera, haizea ziztuan.

Puskatu da ilargia ispilu bat bezala,

eta haren zatiek distira orain haritzik

garaienaren gailurrean.

 

The Trees

The trees inside are moving out into the forest, / the forest that was empty all these days / where no bird could sit / no insect hide / no sun bury its feet in shadow / the forest that was empty all these nights / will be full of trees by morning. // All night the roots work / to disengage themselves from the cracks / in the veranda floor. / The leaves strain toward the glass / small twigs stiff with exertion / long-cramped boughs shuffling under the roof / like newly discharged patients / half-dazed, moving / to the clinic doors. // I sit inside, doors open to the veranda / writing long letters / in which I scarcely mention the departure / of the forest from the house. / The night is fresh, the whole moon shines / in a sky still open / the smell of leaves and lichen / still reaches like a voice into the rooms. / My head is full of whispers / which tomorrow will be silent. // Listen. The glass is breaking. / The trees are stumbling forward / into the night. Winds rush to meet them. / The moon is broken like a mirror, / its pieces flash now in the crown / of the tallest oak.