Anna Aguilar-Amat

katalonščina

Anna Crowe

angleščina

Petrolier i Teatre

Aquesta nit un altre petrolier ha rebentat a les estrelles.
El cel es fa pesant pel cortinatge fosc que es mou
com una serp, al nord i al sud en onades distintes.
¿Qui ha accionat la palanca equivocadament,
quan no hi havia entreacte?
Diuen que el teloner sóc jo, i ara la llum desapareix
com si l'home del sac l'hagués robada.
Se'n va la neu de l'escenari, la teva veu, les lloses
de la casa de sucre que entre els dos hem bastit
i el bressol que teixies amb paraules.
Tot i que em sembla nou, conec bé aquest teló fet de mortalla,
de cuirs de llops, draps de la pols que pengen, despulles
de llebrers que no eren bons per la cacera.
Parracs dels noms dels que no sé estimar.
Les teves mans, les meves, buides com guants de goma.
Els nostres llavis d’enfilalls de moixama
repetint quatre notes de grans obres simfòniques que
ofeguen plors de nens.
Llavors venen les basques i els glassons amb forma de pingüí
que em pugen a la gola. Contra les meves dents,
abans de caure a terra,
fan el soroll de claus a punt d’obrir la porta.
¿Ets tu el gos adormit que sembla mort, que dóna i pren calor
d’entre les meves cames?
Potser jo sóc el gos, i tu,
el captaire.

© Anna Aguilar-Amat
Iz: Petrolier
València: Denes, 2003
Avdio produkcija: Institut Ramon Llull

Oil-tanker and theatre

Tonight another oil-tanker has burst among the stars.
The sky grows heavy with dark curtains moving
snake-like, north and south in different waves.
Who has pulled the lever down in error
when there was no interval?
Someone says I’m the stage-manager and now light vanishes
as though spirited away by the bogeyman.
Snow on the stage melts, along with your voice, and the slabs
of the candy house we built together,
along with the cradle you wove with words.
Although it looks new, I recognise this theatre-curtain sewn
        with shrouds,
with wolf-skins, with dust hanging in rags, and the remains
of hounds who were no use for hunting.
Shreds of names of those I don’t know how to love.
Your hands, and mine, empty as rubber-gloves.
Our lips, strips of dried fish
repeating a few notes from great symphonies which
drown the cries of children.
Then comes the retching and the ice-cubes shaped like
penguins
welling up in my throat. Before they fall to the floor,
they rattle against my teeth with a noise like keys
about to open a door.
Is it you, this sleeping dog that looks dead, that gives
and takes away warmth from between my legs?
Maybe I am the dog, and you
the beggar.

Translated into English by Anna Crowe