Poesia kaiera
Urrunegi joan gara; ez dakigu nola gelditu: oldarra
Baino ez dugu. Eta bultzatutako Inerteei eransten diegu.
Azkarrak gara... Tximinoak bezain azkarrak gara; eta gutako batzuek
Entelegua dute, gure arriskua dena, adimena falta baitugu
Eta sena, berriz, ahaztu.
Aurrerapena... aurrerapena hizkuntzako hitzik zikinena da; nork, baina, esan zigun
—eta sinetsarazi— aurrerapauso bat ezinbestean zela, beti zela,
Ideia ona?
Kobazulo argi gabe honetan, pauso bat aurrera
Pauso hori Amildegirako beherapausoa izan daiteke.
Baina guk, guk ez dugu orientazio senik; oldarra
Baino ez dugu; ez goaz aurrera,
Mendian behera amiltzen gara, besterik ez,
Hormatik askatutako harri puskak legez, bidean zanpatuz
Ernetzen hasitako hainbat gauza delikatu, hazteko asmoa zutenak.
Azkarrak, bagara, izan, eta asmatzaileak... baina ez sortzaileak;
Sortzeko erabaki behar baita —zelulek erabaki behar baitute— zein forma,
Zein kolore, zein sexu, zenbat hosto, bost, edo bost baino gehiago,
Edo bost baino gutxiago.
Baina guk, guk ez dugu ezer erabakitzen: Aukera txepela
Agertu, eta harrapatu egiten dugu, …hainbeste pozten gara
zuzenean Gerra ez den zerbait gertatzen denean…;
Pentsatzen dugulako —nahiz eta, jakina, orain oso gutxitan pentsatzen dugun Argitasunez—
Gerraren beste aldea Bakea dela.
Ez dugu zentzurik; maldan behera amildu baino ez gara egiten. Bakea
ezjakintasun eder pasakor bat da
beste nonbait aurrera egiten ari den gerraz.
We have gone too far; we do not know how to stop: impetus / Is all we have. And we share it with the pushed Inert. // We are clever,—we are as clever as monkeys; and some of us / Have intellect, which is our danger, for we lack intelligence / And have forgotten instinct. // Progress—progress is the dirtiest word in the language—who ever told us— / And made us believe it—that to take a step forward was necessarily, was always / A good idea? / In this unlighted cave, one step forward / That step can be the down-step into the Abyss. / But we, we have no sense of direction; impetus / Is all we have; we do not proceed, we only / Roll down the mountain, / Like disbalanced boulders, crushing before us many / Delicate springing things, whose plan it was to grow. // Clever, we are, and inventive,—but not creative; / For. to create, one must decide—the cells must decide—what form, / What colour, what sex, how many petals, five, or more than five, / Or less than five. // But we, we decide nothing: the bland Opportunity / Presents itself, and we embrace it,—we are so grateful / When something happens which is not directly War; / For we think—although of course, now, we very seldom / Clearly think— / That the other side of War is Peace. // We have no sense; we only roll downhill. Peace / Is the temporary beautiful ignorance that War / Somewhere progresses.