D. Sam Abrams
الانجليزية
Pare, el dolor
Pare, el dolor no calia,
ni les agulles punitives ni el xerric
de les dents en vida, ni la suor freda
ni el tumor fosfòric, ni la nafra
que va estenent-se com un llac nocturn.
El que volies sentir, dels nostres llavis,
t’ho hauríem dit millor sense sanglots;
la teva casa llunya
l’hauríem trobada, també, només pujant.
La llum de la finestra eterna
rere la qual llegeixes desvetllat, per esperar-nos,
el llibre dels nascuts,
era prou resplendent dalt del turó i la nit
perquè no ens desviéssim mai
i t’arribéssim al cercle magnànim del sopar
amb la puntualitat exacta de la mort. No, Pare,
el dolor no calia.
من: Oniris i el tret del caçador
Columna, 1987
الإنتاج المسموع: Institut Ramon Llull
Father, pain
Father, pain was uncalled-for,
so were punitive needles, the gnashing
of teeth in life, cold seats,
phosphoric tumors and wounds
that spread like a lake at night.
What you wanted to hear from our lips
we would have said better without sobbing;
we would have found
your distant home, also, by just rising.
The light in the eternal window
behind which you wait up for us reading
the book of the born
was bright enough on the hilltop at night
so that we would have never lost our way
and reached the magnanimous circle for supper
as strictly punctual as death. No, Father,
pain was uncalled-for.