A POEM POEMA
Robert Gurney trans. Pere Bessó (into Catalán)

You know how it is
these days.

We all seem to be rushing
from A to B
without even having the time,
some days,
to read the paper.

Today was no exception,
except that, in one way, it was.

I was in the local supermarket
rushing to buy bread,
before it all went.


A Spanish newspaper
caught my eye.

El País.

I opened it up.

I went straight
to a short story
by the Turkish writer
Orham Pamuk.

It was late.
The bread shelves were almost bare.

I only had time
to read the last paragraph.

I saw him watching
flocks of storks
flying slowly
on their way south
from the Balkans.

It was almost autumn.

They were passing in slow motion
over an island
where he was standing,
not very far from Istanbul.

It mentioned the sound
of their wings.

It was like a poem.

Ja saps com va la marxa
en aquests dies.

Sembla que ens apressem
d'un lloc a un altre
sense tindre temps,
alguns dies,
ni per a llegir el periòdic.

Hui no fou l'excepció,
sinó per una cosa.

Entrava a correcuita
al supermercat local
per a comprar pa,
abans que no n'hi hagués.

Un diari espanyol
em cridà l'atenció.

El País.

L'obrí.

Aní de seguida
a un conte
de l'escriptor turc
Orham Pamuk.

Després fou tard,
les lleixes del pa hi eren quasi buides.

Només tinguí temps
de llegir el darrer paràgraf.

Viu com seguia
bandades de cigonyes
que volaven lentament
cap al sud
des dels Balcans.

Apuntava la tardor.

Passaven a espaiet
per damunt de l'illa
on ell era,
no molt lluny d'Istanbul.

Parlava del so
de les seues ales.

Semblava un poema.

Copyright © Robert Gurney: transl. copyright © Pere Bessó 2008.


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