Poesia kaiera
Udaberria
Zer xederekin itzultzen zara, apirila, berriro?
Edertasuna ez da aski.
Jadanik ezin nauzu lasaitu likatsuki
Irekiz doazen hostoñoen gorritasunarekin.
Dakidana dakit.
Eguzkia bero dut idunean, beha nagoela
Azafraiaren arantzei.
Ona da lurraren usaina.
Iduri du heriotzarik ez dela.
Baina zer ardura du horrek?
Ez da bakarrik lurpean gizonen garunak
Harren jaki direla.
Bizitza berez
Ez da ezer.
Edalontzi huts bat, tapizik gabeko eskailera tarte bat.
Ez da aski urtero, muino honetan behera,
Apirila
Inuzente baten gisan jaistea, zezelka eta noranahi botaz loreak.
Spring
To what purpose, April, do you return again? / Beauty is not enough. / You can no longer quiet me with the redness / Of little leaves opening stickily. / I know what I know. / The sun is hot on my neck as I observe / The spikes of the crocus. / The smell of the earth is good. / It is apparent that there is no death. / But what does that signify? / Not only under ground are the brains of men / Eaten by maggots. / Life in itself / Is nothing, / An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs. / It is not enough that yearly, down this hill, / April / Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.