MAZÁS DO XARDÍN DE TOLSTOI

Eu,
que bordeei en automóbil as beiras do Neretva,
que rebañei en bicicleta as rúas húmidas de Copenhague.
Eu que medín cos meus brazos os buratos de Saraxevo,
que atravesei ao volante a fronteira de Eslovenia
e sobrevoei en avioneta a ría de Betanzos.
Eu que collín un ferry que arribase ás costas de Irlanda,
e á illa de Ometepe no Lago Cocibolca;
eu que non esquecerei aquela tenda en Budapest,
nin os campos de algodón na provincia de Tesalia,
nin unha noite nun hotel aos 17 anos en Niza.
A miña memoria vai mollar os pés á praia de Jurmala en Letonia
e na sexta avenida síntense coma na casa.
Eu,
que houben morrer unha vez viaxando nun taxi en Lima,
que atravesei o amarelo dos campos brillantes de Pakruojis
e crucei aquela mesma rúa que Margarett Mitchell en Atlanta.
Os meus pasos pisaron as areas rosadas de Elafonisi,
cruzaron unha esquina en Brooklyn, a ponte Carlos, Lavalle.
Eu que atravesei deserto para ir ata Essaouira,
que me deslicei en tirolina dende os cumios do Mombacho,
que non esquecerei a noite que durmín na rúa en Amsterdam,
nin o Mosteiro de Ostrog, nin as pedras de Meteora.
Eu que pronunciei un nome no medio dunha praza en Gante
que unha vez suquei o Bósforo vestida de promesas,
que nunca volvín ser a mesma despóis daquela tarde en Auschwitz.
Eu,
que conducín cara o leste até preto de Podgorica,
que percorrín en motoneve o glaciar de Vatnajökull,
eu que nunca me sentín tan soa coma na rue de Sant Denis,
que xamáis probarei uvas coma as uvas de Corinto.
Eu, que un día recollín
   mazás do xardín de Tolstoi,
quero voltar a casa:
o recanto
que prefiro
da Coruña

xusto en ti.

© Yolanda Castaño
Extrait de: Varios autores - A Coruña á luz das letras
Iñás-Oleiros: Ed. Editorial Trifolium, 2008
Production audio: Literaturwerkstatt Berlin, 2015

APPLES FROM TOLSTOY’S GARDEN

I,
who traced by car the banks of the Neretva,
who exhausted on bicycle the steaming streets of Cophehnague.
I who measured with my own arms the holes of Sarajevo,
who crossed, in the driver's seat, the border of Slovenia
and overflew in a biplane the Ria of Betanzos.
I who set off in a ferry which docked on the coasts of Ireland,
and at the island of Ometepe in Lake Cocibolca;
I who will never forget that shop in Budapest,
nor the fields of cotton in the province of Tesalia,
nor a night when I was 17 in a hotel in Nice.
My memory wets its feet at Jurmala beach in Latvia
and on 6th Avenue feels at home.
I,
who could have died once taking in a taxi in Lima,
who crossed the yellow of the brilliant fields of Pakruojis
and crossed that same street as Margaret Mitchell in Atlanta.
My steps walked the pink sands of Elafonisi,
they crossed a corner in Brooklyn, the Charles Bridge, Lavalle street.
I who traversed desert to go to Essaouira,
who slid on a zip wire from the heights of Mombacho,
who won't forget the night I slept on the street itself in Amsterdam,
nor the Monastery of Ostrog, nor the stones of Meteora.
I who said a name aloud in the middle of a plaza in Gante,
who once cut through the Bosphorus dressed in promises,
who was never the same after that afternoon in Auschwitz.
I,
who drove east until near Podgorica,
who covered in a snowmobile the Vatnajókull glacier,
I who never felt as alone as in the rue de Sant Denis,
who will never taste grapes like the grapes of Corinto.
I, who one day plucked
apples from Tolstoy's garden,
I want to go back home:
the refuge
that I love most
of A Coruña

precisely in you.

Translation by Lawrence Schimel