Poesia kaiera
Poesia kaiera
William Butler Yeats
itzulpena: Juan Kruz Igerabide
2022, poesia
64 orrialde
978-84-17051-86-0
William Butler Yeats
1865-1939
 
Poesia kaiera
William Butler Yeats
itzulpena: Juan Kruz Igerabide
2022, poesia
64 orrialde
978-84-17051-86-0
aurkibidea
 

 

1913ko iraila

 

Zer behar duzue, arrazoietara etorriz gero,

kutxa koipetsu bat miatzea baizik,

eta penny bati penny erdi gehitzea

eta otoitz dardarti bati beste otoitz bat,

hezur-muina erabat xukatu arte?

Gizakia otoitz egiteko eta aurrezteko jaiotzen denetik,

Irlanda Erromantikoa hilik da, eta aienaturik,

eta O’Learyrekin batera hilobian datza.

 

Izan ere, zein desberdinak ziren

zuen haur-jolasa isildu zutenen izenak;

haiek munduan zehar haizea bezala hedatu ziren,

eta urkatzailearen soka kiribildua zain zutenen alde

errezatzeko ez zuten denbora askorik izan.

Eta, Jainkoak lagun gaitzala, zer salba zezaketen ba?

Irlanda Erromantikoa, hilik eta aienaturik,

O’Learyrekin batera hilobian datza.

 

Horregatik ote zuten antzara basatiek

hegala zabaldu itsasaldi ororen gainetik,

horregatik isuri ote zen hainbeste odol,

horregatik hil ote ziren Edward Fitzgerald

eta Robert Emmet eta Wolfe Tone?

Eldarniozko ahalegin hori guztia horretarako?

Irlanda Erromantikoa, hilik eta aienaturik,

O’Learyrekin batera hilobian datza.

 

Baldin eta urte horietara itzultzeko aukera bagenu,

eta erbesteratu horiei deitu

bakardadean eta saminez dauden bitartean,

oihuka esango zenukete: Zenbait emakumeren

ile horiak amaren seme oro zoratu du.

Hain arinki eman zuten beren eskaintza;

baina utz itzazue bere horretan, hil eta aienatu baitziren

eta O’Learyrekin hilobian baitautza.

 

September 1913

What need you, being come to sense, / But fumble in a greasy till / And add the halfpence to the pence / And prayer to shivering prayer, until / You have dried the marrow from the bone? / For men were born to pray and save: / Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone, / It’s with O’Leary in the grave. // Yet they were of a different kind, / The names that stilled your childish play, / They have gone about the world like wind, / But little time had they to pray / For whom the hangman’s rope was spun, / And what, God help us, could they save? / Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone, / It’s with O’Leary in the grave. // Was it for this the wild geese spread / The grey wing upon every tide; / For this that all that blood was shed, / For this Edward Fitzgerald died, / And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone, / All that delirium of the brave? / Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone, / It’s with O’Leary in the grave. // Yet could we turn the years again, / And call those exiles as they were / In all their loneliness and pain, / You’d cry, ‘Some woman’s yellow hair / Has maddened every mother’s son’: / They weighed so lightly what they gave. / But let them be, they’re dead and gone, / They’re with O’Leary in the grave. // And you would murmur tender words, / Forgiving me, because you were dead: / Nor would you rise and hasten away, / Though you have the will of the wild birds, / But know your hair was bound and wound / About the stars and moon and sun: / O would, beloved, that you lay / Under the dock-leaves in the ground, / While lights were paling one by one.