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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