Poesia kaiera
Steepletop
I
Zu ere bai, albaka genoarra: eta zu,
Berbena limoiusaina: orain zuek egin behar duzue ahalegina pittin bat gogortzeko
Desorduko leiaren kontra; zuen gainean ibili naiz eta estali zaituztet eta su ketsuak piztu,
Ia indarrak agortzeraino. Orain, zuen esku
Geratzen da kontua. Nik beste zeregin batzuk ditut,
Poesia idaztea, kasu. Eta ni ere
Banaiz ortu honetako auzoko.
II
Ezerk ez zitzakeen jasan
Honelako euriak.
Lilak ito egin ziren, marroitu, nik usaindu baino lehen,
Hotz nire masailaren kontra, estuturik
Eskuaz pixka batean.
Minak
Gutxitan daitezke saihets, baina bai aurkez
Are treneko arrotzei ere...
Baina euriak
Lilei egiten diena... egin hasperen eta saia zaitez
Hori azaltzen.
III
Borraja, erleen alaja,
Eta urdin zaleena,
Zergatik,
Aldatu baino ez bazintudan egin
Ez erleak eta ez nik
Nahi ez zintugun lekutik
Salbiaren petik, zergatik ekin autosuntsipen honi?
Xamur ibili nintzen zure erro nagusi lirainarekin.
Uste nuen dena izango zinela ernamuin,
Guztia hosto lodi iletsu, pepino usaineko.
Baina zergatik ote duen inork sinetsiko
Ezer, nik ez dakit. Uste nuen fidatzekoa zinela.
Steepletop
I
Even you, Sweet Basil: even you, / Lemon Verbena: must exert yourselves now and somewhat harden / Against untimely frost; I have hovered you and covered you and kept going smudges, / Until I am close to worn-out. Now, you / Go about it. I have other things to do, / Writing poetry, for instance. And I, too, / Live in this garden.
II
Nothing could stand / All this rain. / The lilacs were drowned, browned before I had even smelled them / Cool against my cheek, held down / A little by my hand. / Pain / Is seldom preventable, but is presentable / Even to strangers on a train— / But what the rain / Docs to the lilacs- is something you must sigh and try / To explain.
III
Borage, forage for bees / And for those who love blue, / Why must you, / Having only been transplanted / From where you were not wanted / Either by the bee or by me / From under the sage, engage in this self-destruction? / I was tender about your slender tap-root. / I thought you would send out shoot after shoot / Of thick cucumber-smelling, hairy leaves. / But why anybody believes / Anything, I do not know. I thought I could trust you.