| 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.