Poesia kaiera
Jaisurya
Berriz ere euri garaia zen, eta goroldio joria
ekzema bezala hedatzen zen
negarra zerion zuhaitz bakoitzean; eta lur urtsuaren azpitik
zizare gizenak azaleratzen ziren euripean
lehertzera. Euria ari zuen nire semea jaio zen
egunean, zehar euri bat erditze minarekin batera
hasi eta hasperenka, auhenka, orroka lagundu zidana
nik intziri egiten nuenean, halako moldez,
non irriņo batez uzten bainion kexatzeari haren
oinazea entzuteko. Orduan sentitu nuen soilik
berekoiek zituztela beldurrak, soilik ez txeratsuek
sentitzen zutela mina, eta orduan lehen
odol tindua beste goiz alba bat iruditu zitzaidan.
Tarte batez, ni ere lurra nintzen. Nigan hazia
isilik zegoen, nola haur bat umetokiak
bare egotz dezan itxaroten. Hori zen, beraz, nire patua.
Sar zaitez itxarongelan, egin nuen behin oihu,
bihotza hutsik izan nuen batean; bete
hutsunea, arrotz, bete ume batekin.
Inportantea ez da maitasuna, odola parrandara
daroana, ezta gizona ere, bere irritsaren marka
zugan jarri eta azal zaharra mudatzen baitu besarkada
bakoitzaren amaian. Inporta duen bakarra
da tximista eta euripean onddo pozoitsu gisa
sortzen ari dena; umetokiko inarrosaldi
leuna; hazten ari den fetua; zeren, inporta
duten bakarrak ur bazterrera ekarritako altxorrak
baitira, ez haiek ekarri zituzten marea urdin luzeak.
Atertu zuenean, argia jada alai gure kasuarinaren
hostoetan, arratsaldea hasi berria zen. Eta orduan,
argiari auhenka etorri zen, hain eder, argi izpi bat
bultzaka sartua argi hilean. Gero nigana altxatu zuten
Jaisurya harroa, nire semea, iluntasunetik bereizia,
iluntasun bat nirea eta nigan zegoena; ezagutu dudana,
bizi izan dudana; zaharrak gerora erabiltzeko hitzak
zorroztera esertzen diren geletako iluntasuna;
umetoki antzuetako iluntasuna; eta zekenak
txanpon herdoilduak gordetzen dituen eltzeitsukoa.
Ilargirik gabeko gau baten lohitik jaio zen
Jaisurya, nire semea, nola jaiotzen den
gaizkitik ongia eta gauetik
urrezko eguna, eguzkiz blai.
Jaisurya
It was again the time of rain and on / Every weeping tree, the lush moss spread like / Eczema, and from beneath the swashy / Earth the fat worms surfaced to explode / Under rain. It rained on the day my son / Was born, a slanting rain that began with / The first labour pain and kept me / Company, sighing, wailing, and roaring / When I groaned so that I smiled and stopped my / Plaints to hear its grief. I felt then that / Only the selfish had fears, that only / The unloving felt pain and then the first / Tinge of blood seemed like another dawn / Breaking. For a while I too was earth. / In me the seed was silent, waiting as / A baby does, for the womb’s quiet / Expulsion. This then was my destiny. / Walk into the waiting room, I had cried, / When once my heart was vacant, fill the / Emptiness, stranger, fill it with a child. / Love is not important, that makes the blood / Carouse, nor the man who brands you with his / Lust, but is shed as slough at end of each / Embrace. Only that matters which forms as / Toadstool under lightning and rain, the soft / Stir in womb, the foetus growing, for, / Only the treasures matter that were washed / Ashore, not the long blue tides that washed them / In. When rain stopped and the light was gay on our / Casuarina leaves, it was early / Afternoon. And, then, wailing into light / He came, so fair, a streak of light thrust / Into the faded light. They raised him / To me then, proud Jaisurya, my son / Separated from darkness that was mine / And in me. The darkness I have known, / Lived with. The darkness of rooms where the old / Sit, sharpening words for future use, / The darkness of sterile wombs and that of / The miser’s pot, with the mildew on his coins. / Out of the mire of a moonless night was / He born, Jaisurya, my son, as out of / The wrong is born the right and out of night / The sun-drenched golden day.