Kaleko istorioak

Juan Luis Zabala

(Leonard Cohenen beste kantu baten hitzak)

Kaleko istorioak

Kaleko istorioak nireak dira,
espainiar ahotsak barrezka daude.
Cadillac autoak arrastaka jaisten dira
gauean eta gas toxikoan zehar.
Nik aukeratutako hotel zahar honetan,
nire leiho-hegian nago.
Bai, esku bat nire buru-hiltzean
eta beste bat arrosaren gainean.

Badakit amaiera gertu dagoela diotela
eta ziurtzat jo daitekeela gerra hastea.
Hiriak erditik puskatuta daude
eta bitartekariak joanak dira.
Baina utzidazue galdetzen berriro,
oi, hautseko umeok,
oihuka ari diren ehiztari horiek guztiek
guretzat hitz egiten dute?

Eta nora doaz autobide horiek guztiak,
orain, libre garenean?
Zergatik desfilatzen dute oraindik ere
niregana hurbildu behar zuten armadek?
Oi, zango ederreko dama,
oi, bolanteari eusten dion atzerritarra,
zuen oinazean harrapatuta zaudete
eta zuen plazerak zigilua dira.

Desiraren aroa jaiotzen ari da
baina bi gurasoek maitagarrien ipuinak
kontatzeko eskatzen diote erizainari
beiraren bi aldeetatik.
Orain haurra bere lokarriarekin
jaso dute kometa bat balitz bezala,
begi bat proiektuz betea
eta bestea gauez.

Oi, zatoz nirekin, ene txikia
eta landetxe hura aurkituko dugu,
eta belarra eta sagarrondoak haziko
animalia guztiak epelean izan daitezen.
Eta ausaz gau batez esnatu eta
eta galdetzen badut nor naizen,
oi, eraman nazazu hiltegira.
Han izango naiz zain bildotsarekin.

Esku bat hexagrama batean
eta esku bat neska batengan,
aldaroka nabil gizon guztiek mundu
deitzen dioten desioen putzu batean.
Hain gara txikiak izarren artean,
hain handiak zeruaren kontra.
Eta metroko jendetzaren artean galduta,
zure begirada harrapatzen saiatzen naiz.

* * *

Stories of the street

The stories of the street are mine,
the Spanish voices laugh.
The Cadillacs go creeping down
through the night and the poison gas.
I lean from my window sill
in this old hotel I chose.
Yes, one hand on my suicide
and one hand on the rose.

I know you’ve heard it’s over now
and war must surely come.
The cities they are broke in half
and the middle men are gone.
But let me ask you one more time,
O children of the dust,
these hunters who are shrieking now,
do they speak for us?

And where do all these highways go,
now that we are free?
Why are the armies marching still
that were coming home to me?
O lady with your legs so fine,
O stranger at your wheel,
You are locked into your suffering
and your pleasures are the seal.

The age of lust is giving birth
but both the parents ask
the nurse to tell them fairy tales
on both sides of the glass.
Now the infant with his cord
is hauled in like a kite,
and one eye filled with blueprints,
one eye filled with night.

O come with me my little one
and we will find that farm,
and grow us grass and apples there
to keep all the animals warm.
And if by chance I wake at night
and I ask you who I am,
O take me to the slaughter house.
I will wait there with the lamb.

With one hand on a hexagram
and one hand on a girl,
I balance on a wishing well
that all men call the world.
We are so small between stars,
so large against the sky.
And lost among the subway crowds
I tray to catch you eye.

Iruzkin bat utzi

31 eskutik atalean

Utzi erantzun bat

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