Sala Egípcia

M’assec a la sala egípcia del museu
i sento el brunzir de mel de les abelles.
El passat és de debò: groc i blau,
com el blat que agrana el pagès o aquesta cigonya
que beu al riu turquesa del papir.
Un cop més tot em sembla igual:
el paleta amb el sedàs a bat de sol
i l’esclau que venta, submís, el faraó
m’esperen dins un taxi, carrer avall.
Un vol d’ànecs rabents creua el cel enterbolit;
a la taula del costat, l’ibis somica, ebri, cruel.
Diuen que les passions no es poden mai pintar
però aquest fresc és un mirall de quatre mil anys.
Vindrà la mort, com el gos fosc de la paret,
i creurem ser massa joves, o immadurs,
o ens sabrà greu de traspassar, adormits,
el goig escàs i fugisser de tants moments perduts.
La barca, però, llisca eterna sota el sol roent.

© Francesc Parcerisas
De: Focs d’octubre
Producción de Audio: institut ramon llull

The Egyptian Room

I sit in the Egyptian room in the museum
and hear the honeyed buzzing of the bees.
The past is with us, now: yellow and blue,
like the wheat the labourer is threshing, or that stork
that drinks from the turquoise river of the papyrus.
Once again all times seem to be one and the same:
the stone-mason with his sieve in the scorching sun,
and the slave who is humbly fanning the pharaoh
wait for me in a taxi down the street.
A flock of ducks swiftly crosses the murky sky;
at the next table the ibis snivels, drunk and tyrannical.
They say the passions can’t be painted any longer
but this four-thousand-year-old fresco is a mirror.
Death will come, like that black dog on the wall,
and we’ll think ourselves too young, not ripe enough,
or we’ll lament our having to fall asleep and leave behind
so many moments’ scant and fleeting joy, all lost.
But look at the boat, gliding forever under the blazing sun.

Translated by Anna Crowe