| LUR LOKARTUA III | THE SLEEPING LAND III |
| Rikardo Arregi | trans. Amaia Gabantxo (from Basque) |
Ordokietan zehar nekaezin hemen gutxi mintzatzen da helmugaz, bideaz egiten da solasa, eta basoez. Helmugak errauts dezake agian bidaian bilduriko ezagutza eta begiradak. Eta lotan zaude ene haragiak esnaturik nabi zaituenean. Orduan bakarrik izan daitezke kontsolabide laino eta literaturaz egindako tren mitikoak. Itzalen artetik ametsak gauzatzen, eta amesgaiztoak. Soldaduak etxerako bidean alai. Familia bisitatzera doan emakumea, urtean behin, badakizue. Itxura garrantzi gutxikoa da hemen eta denbora geltokietan neurtzen da soilik. Trubetzkoi eta iraultzaile erromantikoak, abendua gehiegi maite zuten haiek. Xake jokalariak. Haur lasaiak. Neba-arreba gazteak, ederrenak. Eta Puxkira agertu ahala esnatu egiten zen gizona: Ez, bizitzak ez nau gogaitzen. Bizitza maite dut, bizi nahi dut, gaztaroa ihesean ikusi arren ez zait gogoa hozten. Ene jakinminari pozgarri zaizkio oraindik fantasiaren amets maiteak, senisazio oro. Arin doa Puxkinen hegatsa ibai maiteminduen gainetik. Hau ez da literatura, zeren lur lokartuan ibaiak ere maitemintzen baitira, adibiderik bada. Eta gero Tatiana Nikolaievna. Lauaxetaren marinel eta txo mozkortuak, ederrenak. Hilobien aurreko mahai eta eserleku zurezkoak, itzalekin hitz egira eta bazkaltzeko. Izen bat eta bi data. Usolie-Sibirskoie bigarren dataren ondoan idatziko balute, bai dotorea ene hilarria. Eta Puxkin agertu ahala esnatu egiten zen gizona: Zer elan nahi du zuretzat nire izena? Oroigarri bakarra paper batean utairiko aztarna hila hilartitzaren antzera, letra arraroz idatzita inork ulertzen ez duen hizkuntza batean. Eta gero haurrak ur ertzean jolasean. Iragana eta iraganaren oroimena saltzera beharturik zegoen emakumea. Listvianka-ko elizaren aurrean belarittakoez, bereaz eta nireaz, eta haien esanahiez mintzatu zitzaidan mutil urduria, ederrena. Eta Puxkin agertu ahal esnatu egiten zen gizona: Bizitzak engainatzen bazaitu ez atsekabetu, ez harrotu, jasan itzazu egun goibelak, alaiagoak helduko dira. Geroan bizi da gure gogoa, gure arima orainak du lotzen. Dena da iheskorra. Etorriko denari ongi etorri. Eta gero buriatar guztiak, Ust' Orda-koak, Aginsk-ekoak eta errepublikakoak, sorlekua deserri. Mundu zati handi honi lur lokartua deitu zioten jende ahantziak. Eta Puxkin agertu ahala esnatu egiten zen gizona: Ezin ezabatu lerro tristeak. | On our tireless journey across these flatlands destination isn't something we talk about much, our conversations concern the road, the forests. Maybe because destination is something that could turn to ashes the familiarity and the understanding we've gained in this time. And you sleep when my flesh wants you awake. Only the mythical trains built of clouds and literature console me then. Dreams emerge from the shadows, and nightmares. A soldier, happy on his way home. A woman, visiting her family once a year - you know the story. Appearances are not a matter of concern here and time is only measured in terms of stops and stations. Trubetzkoy and the Romantic revolutionaries, the ones who loved December too much. Chess players. Quiet children. The youngest brother or sister, always handsomest. And the man who woke up every time Pushkin came by: No, I never tire of life, I love life, I want to live, I am no less eager now that I have seen my youth go by. My curiosity still relishes my beloved fights of fancy, every sensation. Pushkin's quill flies fast above the lovelorn rivers. This isn't literature, because in the sleeping land even rivers fall in love, and that says something. And then Tatiana Nikolaevna. Lauaxeta's drunken sailors and cabin boys, always handsomest. The wooden table and chairs placed in front of the grave, to talk and eat with shadows. A name and two dates. And if Usolie-Sibiriskoie appeared next to the second date, how elegant my tombstone would be. And the man who woke up every time Pushkin came by: What does my name mean to you? It is the only reminder, a dead memento on a piece of paper like an epitaph written in strange letters in a language no one understands. And then children playing by the shore. The woman forced to sell her past and the memory of it. And the nervous handsomest boy who, in front of the church of Listvianka, told me about our earrings and their meaning. And the man who woke up every time Pushkin came by: If life betrays you don't get upset, or be arrogant, live through the sadder days bacause happy ones are ahead. Our mind lives for the morrow, our soul is tied to the now. Everything is ephemeral. Welcome what is to come. And then all the opponents, from Ust-Orda, from Aginsk, from the republic, all banished from the homeland. All the forgotten people who named this part of the world the sleeping land. And the man who woke up every time Pushkin came by: I can't delete the sad lines. |
Copyright © Rikardo Arregi 2007; trans. copyright © Amaia Gabantxo 2007
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