Kirmen Uribe

баскский

Elizabeth Macklin

английский

Txoriak neguan

Gure betebeharra txoriak salbatzea zen.
Elurretan preso geratu ziren txoriak salbatzea.

Hondartza aldean egoten ziren gorderik gehienak
itsaso beltzaren abarora.
Txoriak ere beltzak ziren.
Haien babeslekutik atera eta
etxera eramaten genituen
patrikaretan sartuta.
Txori txiki-txikiak, gure haur eskuetan ere
doi-doi sartzen zirela.

Etxean, berogailuaren ondoan jartzen genituen.
Txoriek baina ez zuten luzaroan irauten.
Bi edo hiru orduren buruan hil egiten ziren.
Guk ez genuen ulertzen zergatik,
ez genuen ulertzen haien esker txarra.
Izan ere, esnetan bustitako ogi apurrak
ematen genizkien jatera ahora
eta ohantzea ere prestatzen genien
gure bufandarik koloretsuenekin.

Alferrik baina, hil egiten ziren.

Gurasoek haserre, esaten ziguten
ez ekartzeko txori gehiago etxera,
hil egiten zirela gehiegizko beroagatik.
Eta natura jakintsua dela
eta iritsiko zela udaberria bere txoriekin.

Gu pentsakor jartzen une batez,
beharbada gurasoak zuzen izango dira.

Hala eta guztiz ere, biharamonean
berriro joango ginen hondartzara txoriak salbatzera.
Gure ahalegina itsasoan elurra
bezain alferrekoa zela jakin arren.

Eta txoriek hiltzen jarraitzen zuten, txoriek hiltzen.

© Kirmen Uribe
Из: unpublished
Аудиопроизводство: 2005, M.Mechner / Literaturwerkstatt Berlin

Birds in Winter

Saving the birds was what we had to do that winter.
Saving the birds imprisoned in the snow.

All along the beach most of them were hidden,
nestled in the shade of the black sea.
The birds were black, too.
From the coverts we’d  take them and carry them home
in our coat pockets.
The teeniest birds, barely contained
in even our child-sized hands.

Later, we’d lay them beside the warm stove.
But the birds never lasted long.
In two or three hours they died.
We didn’t see why,
didn’t understand their bad luck.
After all, we’d given them
breadcrumbs moistened in water,
held to their mouths, to eat,
and  furnished a nest for each
with our most colorful winter scarves.

But it was useless, they kept on dying.

Furious, our parents told us
not to bring home any more birds,
they were dying of too much heat.
And that nature is wise,
spring would come with its own birds.

We sat and considered their statements,
then momentarily doubted,
it could be that they would be right.

Still and all, the very next day
we would flock off back to the beach
to save the birds,
though we knew
it was useless as snow in the sea.

And our birds kept dying, these birds taking life.

Translated from the Basque by Elizabeth Macklin