Poesia kaiera
Rendezvous
Zure salak nabartzen dituzten lore xarmant hauengatik ez nintzen etorri. Egiaz,
Ilunpean hobeto zintzakedan maite;
Alegia, arrosez hain distirant ez leudekeen geletan, gela informalagoetan, ez hain ohartuetan
Historiaz, hor hegalean zain, agertokira eite onberaz azaltzekotan
Oin punta pisuez, “Irten” entzun bezain fite.
Ez da gustuko ditudala hautsontzi beteak eta dena ikustea narras,
Edo gelaņo monastikoa santukeriaz lar biluzi eta soila
Ezpada, aldez, girlanda formalok Zortzigarren kaleko gure Afroditarentzat, pittin bat direla lar grekoak
Eta, aldez, gure xarma hutsaz aberastea horma txiroak
Chicagoa izango zela.
Eta, hala ere, hemen nago, Miltonen lerro batez taxistarekin izandako kalapita zuri kontatu berritan, eta zu barrez; eta zu zeu zara, ez beste inor.
Zure barreak azalean jotzen nau xirikada deliziosez txor-txor.
Baina gaiztoa naiz: nahiago nuke igurtzi ez bazenitu —apar harriaz, diot nik ba—
Tabako orbainak zure atzamar ederrotan. Eta nahiago nuke ez banintz sentituko zure ama.
Rendezvous
Not for these lovely blooms that prank your chambers did I come. Indeed, / I could have loved you better in the dark; / That is to say, in rooms less bright with roses, rooms more casual, less aware / Of History in the wings about to enter with benevolent air / On ponderous tiptoe, at the cue “Proceed.” / Not that I like the ash-trays over-crowded and the place in a mess, / Or the monastic cubicle too unctuously austere and stark, / But partly that these formal garlands for our Eighth / Street Aphrodite are a bit too Greek, / And partly that to make the poor walls rich with our unaided loveliness / Would have been more chic. // Yet here I am, having told you of my quarrel with the taxi-driver over a line of Milton, and you laugh; and you are you, none other. / Your laughter pelts my skin with small delicious blows. / But I am perverse: I wish you had not scrubbed—with pumice, I suppose— / The tobacco stains from your beautiful fingers. And I wish I did not feel like your mother.