Poesia kaiera
Hiltzeko borondatea
Galdetu duzunez gero, gehienetan gogoratu ere ez.
Jantzita nabil oinez, bidaiak ez dit arrastorik uzten.
Haragiaren grina izenda ezina itzultzen da gero.
Orduan ere, ez dut deus bizitzaren kontra.
Ezagunak zaizkit oso aipatzen dituzun belar izpi horiek,
eguzkitan ipini dituzun altzariak.
Baina suizidek hizkuntza berezi bat daukate.
Arotzen moduan, jakin nahi lukete zein lan-tresna erabili.
Ez dute inoiz galdetzen, ordea, zergatik eraiki.
Birritan adierazi ditut nire buruarekikoak,
jabetu naiz etsaiaz, irentsi dut hura bitan,
neureganatu dut haren artea, haren lilura.
Era horretan, pentsakor eta astun,
olioa edo ura baino beroago,
ahozulotik adurra zeridala atseden hartu izan dut.
Ez dut sekula nire gorputza labanaren ahoan irudikatu.
Utzi naute are begi-mintzak eta azken gernu kondarrak ere.
Suizidek, gorputza aise traizionatzen dute.
Zendu jaioak, ez dira beti hiltzen,
baina txunditurik daude: nola, bada, haurrek ere irribarrez
adi-adi begiratuko lioketen droga gozo hori laga?
Bizitza hori dena zure mihipean bultzaka!
—hori pasio bihurtzea, berez, ez al da normala?—.
Heriotza, bai hezur tristea, ubelduraz betea,
esango zenuke zuk,
eta, hala ere, urterik urte, Dama nire zain da,
samurki sendatzeko zauri zaharra,
bere espetxe gaiztotik aska dezan ene arnasa.
Oreka aurkiturik, bertan topatzen dute suizidek elkar;
fruituarekin amorratuta, ilargi puztu bat,
behiala musutzat hartu zuten ogia abandonatzen dute,
liburu bat axolagabeki nonahi zabalik,
esan gabeko zerbait, telefonoa zintzilikatu gaberik,
eta maitasuna, hura edozer dela ere, infekzio bat.
[1966]
Wanting to Die
Since you ask, most days I cannot remember. / I walk in my clothing, unmarked by that voyage. / Then the almost unnameable lust returns. // Even then I have nothing against life. / I know well the grass blades you mention, / the furniture you have placed under the sun. // But suicides have a special language. / Like carpenters they want to know which took. / They never ask why build. // Twice I have so simply declared myself, / have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy, / have taken on his craft, his magic. // In this way, heavy and thoughtful, / warmer than oil or water, / I have rested, drooling at the mouth-hole. // I did not think of my body at needle point. / Even the cornea and the leftover urine were gone. / Suicides have already betrayed the body. // Still-born, they don't always die, / but dazzled, they can’t forget a drug so sweet / that even children would look on and smile. // To thrust all that life under your tongue! — / that, all by itself, becomes a passion. / Death’s a sad bone; bruised, you’d say, // and yet she waits for me, year after year, / to so delicately undo an old wound, / to empty my breath from its bad prison. // Balanced there, suicides sometimes meet, / raging at the fruit, a pumped-up moon, / leaving the bread they mistook for a kiss, // leaving the page of the book carelessly open, / something unsaid, the phone off the hook / and the love, whatever it was, an infection.