Poesia kaiera
Poesia kaiera
Seamus Heaney
itzulpena: Xabi Borda
2017, poesia
64 orrialde
978-84-17051-05-1
Seamus Heaney
1939-2013
 
 

 

Tollundeko gizona

 

 

               I

 

Egunen batean Aarhusera joango naiz

Haren buruko zohikatz okrea ikusteko,

Betazaletako leka-maluta leunak,

Larruzko txano punta zorrotza.

 

Lurpetik atera zuten lekutik

Gertu den zelaian,

Neguko haziekin egindako azken ahia

Urdailean mami eginda,

 

Biluzik

Kapela, lazoa eta gerrikoa salbu,

Zutik egongo naiz luzaz.

Jainkosaren senargai,

 

Ito arte estutuko zion idunekoa

Eta bere padura zabaldu,

Zuku ilunek santu baten

Gorpu ondu bihur zezaten,

 

Zohikatz biltzaileen

Abaraskako altxor.

Orain haren musu lohituak

Aarhusen du atseden.

 

 

               II

 

Biraokerian jauts naiteke,

Zingira sagaratu

Gure lur santu izendatuz,

Eta otoitz egin ernaraz ditzan

 

Sakabanatutako, laborari

Matxinatuen haragia,

Etxaldeetan dautzan

Hilotz estaliak,

 

Larruazal eta hortz berritsuak

Lau haurride gazteren

Oheak zipriztintzen, herrestan eramanez

Miliatan zehar muga-lerroen ondotik.

 

 

               III

 

Haren gurdiari tira egiten zion

Askatasun hits hartatik

Apurren bat iritsi behar zitzaidan, gidari nindoala,

Izenak ahoskatuz

 

Tollund, Grauballe, Nebelgard,

Laborari jendearen

Esku zailduei beha,

Euren hizkuntza ulertu gabe.

 

Han Jutlanden,

Barruti hiltzaile zaharretan,

Galdua sentituko naiz, triste,

Eta etxean bezala.

 

The Tollund Man

I

Some day I will go to Aarhus / To see his peat-brown head, / The mild pods of his eye-lids, / His pointed skin cap. // In the flat country near by / Where they dug him out, / His last gruel of winter seeds / Caked in his stomach, // Naked except for / The cap, noose and girdle, / I will stand a long time. / Bridegroom to the goddess, // She tightened her torc on him / And opened her fen, / Those dark juices working / Him to a saint's kept body, // Trove of the turfcutters' / Honeycombed workings. / Now his stained face / Reposes at Aarhus.

II

I could risk blasphemy, / Consecrate the cauldron bog / Our holy ground and pray / Him to make germinate // The scattered, ambushed / Flesh of labourers, / Stockinged corpses / Laid out in the farmyards, // Tell-tale skin and teeth / Flecking the sleepers / Of four young brothers, trailed / For miles along the lines.

III

Something of his sad freedom / As he rode the tumbril / Should come to me, driving, / Saying the names // Tollund, Grauballe, Nebelgard, // Watching the pointing hands / Of country people, / Not knowing their tongue. // Out here in Jutland / In the old man-killing parishes / I will feel lost, / Unhappy and at home.