Poesia kaiera
Presoak
Izan zen garai bat, non gure irritsak
kolore askotako bandera baten gisakoak
baitziren, eta ez herrialde jakin batekoak.
Ohean etzanda geratzen ginen begirada galduz,
akituta, hildako haurrek gibelean utzitako jostailu huts,
eta elkarri galdetzen genion:
Zertarako? Zer arraiotarako?
Hura zen maitasun molde bakarra,
elkarren parteei aizkorakadaka
presoak eguerdian nola, zokorrak jo
eta hautsiz. Lurra ginen eguzki beroaren
pean. Sutan genituen zainak, eta
mendiko gau freskoek ez zegiten
ezer beroa arintzeko. Hura eta
ni bat eginda geundenean, ez ginen
ez ar eta ez eme. Ez zen gelditzen berba
gehiagorik, berba guztiak preso zeuden
gauaren beso zaharretan. Iluntasunean
hazten ginen, isilean abesten genuen
moduan, nota bakoitza altxatzen zelarik
itsasotik, haizetik, lurretik eta gau triste
bakoitzetik, min baten gisan…
Convicts
There was a time when our lusts were / Like a multicoloured flag of no / Particular country. We lay / On bed, glassy-eyed, fatigued, just / The toys dead children leave behind, / And we asked each other, what is / The use, what is the bloody use? // That was the only kind of love, / This hacking at each other’s parts / Like convicts hacking, breaking clods / At noon. We were earth under hot / Sun. There was a burning in our / Veins and the cool mountain nights did / Nothing to lessen heat. When he / And I were one, we were neither / Male nor female. There were no more / Words left, all words lay imprisoned / In the ageing arms of night. In / Darkness we grew as in silence / We sang, each note rising out of / Sea, out of wind, out of earth and / Out of each sad night like an ache...