| TEMPS ENRERA | TIME WAS |
| Gabriel Ferrater | trans. 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 t’ho 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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