TEMPS ENRERATIME WAS
Gabriel Ferratertrans. Arthur Terry (from Catalan)
Deixa'm fugir d'aqui, i tornar al teu temps.
Trobem-nos altre cop al lloc de sempre.
Veig el cel blanc, la negra passarella
de ferros prims, i l'herba humil en terra
de carbó, i sento el xiscle de l'exprés.
L'enorme tremolor ens passa a la vora
i ens hem de parlar a crits. Ho deixem córrer
i em fa riure que rius i que no et sento.
Et veig la brusa gris de cel, el blau
marí de la faldilla curta i ampla
i el gran foulard vermell que duus al coll.
La bandera del teu país. Ja tího vaig dir.
Tot és com aquell dia. Van tornant
les paraules que ens dèiem. I ara, veus,
torna aquell mal moment. Sense raó,
callem. La teva mà sofreix, i fa
com aleshores: un vol vacillant
i l'abandó, i el joc amb el so trist
del timbre de la bicicleta. Sort
que ara, corn aquell dia, uns passos ferris
se'ns tiren al damunt, i l'excessiva
cançó dels homes verds, cascats d'acer,
ens encercla, i un crit imperiós,
com l'or maligne d'una serp se'ns dreça
inesperat, i ens força a amagar el cap
a la falda profunda de la por
fins que s'allunyen. Ja ens hem oblidat
de nosaltres. Tornem a ser feliços
perquè s'allunyen. Aquest moviment
sense record, ens porta a retrobar-nos,
i som feliços de ser aquí, tots dos,
i és igual si callem. Podem besar-nos.
Som joves, No sentim cap pietat
pels silencis passats, i tenim pors
dels altres, que ens distreuen de les nostres.
Baixem per l'avinguda, i a cada arbre
que ens cobreix d'ombra espessa, tenim fred,
i anem de fred en fred, sense pensar-hi.
Let me escape into your old domain.
Our ghosts still drift about the usual place.
I see the winter sky, the metal footbridge
with its blackened struts, the scurf of grass
along the burnt-up track. I hear the express whistle.
Its gathering thunder rocks the ground we stand on
till we have to shout. We watch it pass.
Your soundless laughter sets me laughing too.
I see your dove-grey blouse, the blue
of your short flared skirt, the red scarf bunched
around your neck, the one I used to call
your country's flag.
All's as it was that day. The words we said
come back, and now, the one bad moment.
Something has silenced us. You've hurt your hand.
Remember how it fluttered and hung limp,
nervously fingering your cycle-bell.
It's just as well we're interrupted.
Now, as before, the tramp of metal heels,
the outsize chant of men in battle dress,
steel-helmeted, surrounds us. A command
darts out like the savage glitter of a snake,
and we hide our faces in the lap of fear
till they have passed. Now we've forgotten
how we were: their unreflecting movement
restores us to ourselves, and we are glad
to be together in this place, not caring if we speak.
So we may kiss. We're young: those distant silences
have no authority;
the fear of others kills our private fears.
Freewheeling down the avenue, we feel the cold
as each tree spreads its heavy mass of shade.
We glide from chill to chill, unconsciously.

Copyright © Joan Ferraté: transl. copyright © Arthur Terry 2001

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