Versindaba kompetisie vir vertaalde gedigte (43)
Ada Limón. Vertaling van Engels in Afrikaans. Vert. deur Bester Meyer.
Die Leiband
Ná die baring van bomme—vertakkings en vrees
die verwoede outomatiese masjiengewere ont-bind,
die sproeireën van koeëls ʼn skare in wat hande vashou,
dié dierlike hemel wat open in ʼn leiklip maag van metaal
wat slegs die onsegbare in elk van ons verslind, wat bly
oor? Selfs die verskuilde rivier-na-nêrens is vergiftig
oranje en versuur deur steenkoolmyn. Mens kan
nie anders as om mensdom te vrees nie, want om
die fondament van bog en die dodelike water in eie
longe op te doem, is vergiftigend? Leser, ek wil sê:
Moetnie-doodnie! Selfs wanneer silwerig—vis na vis
pens op kom en die land afpeil op ʼn knetterende knater van haat,
is daar nie steeds iets wat sing nie? Waarheid is: Ek weet nie.
Maar partykeer—sweer-ek-hoor-dit—die wond maak toe
soos ʼn ou geroeste garage deur, en ek kan nog steeds sonder
te veel pyn my lewende ledemate die wêreld in beweeg,
ek kan my steeds verstom aan die hond wat nekbreek uitdaag
en reguit pad vat in die rigting van die storttrokke
want sy dink sy het hulle lief –
sy dink – sonder twyfel – die hard-dreunende goeters
sal haar óók lief hê—haar brose klein self vol lewe met begeerte
om haar godverdomde entoesiasme te deel
totdat ek – reddend – haar leiband terugpluk
want ek wil hê sy moet vir altyd oorleef. Moetnie-doodnie, sê ek,
en ons besluit om ʼn wyle langer te loop, stroombrekers
hoog en koorsagtig bo ons, winter op pad
om haar koue kadawer op hierdie stukkie grond neer te lê.
Miskien bons ons altyd ons liggame
in die rigting van dit wat vernietig, smekend vir liefde
vanuit hierdie vlietende verbygang van tyd, om net miskien,
soos dié hond gehoorsaam op my hakke, vreed-saam
te kan stap—ten minste tot die volgende trok ver-skyn.
***
The Leash
Ada Limón
After the birthing of bombs of forks and fear
the frantic automatic weapons unleashed,
the spray of bullets into a crowd holding hands,
that brute sky opening in a slate metal maw
that swallows only the unsayable in each of us, what’s
left? Even the hidden nowhere river is poisoned
orange and acidic by a coal mine. How can
you not fear humanity, want to lick the creek
bottom dry, to suck the deadly water up into
your own lungs, like venom? Reader, I want to
say: Don’t die. Even when silvery fish after fish
comes back belly up, and the country plummets
into a crepitating crater of hatred, isn’t there still
something singing? The truth is: I don’t know.
But sometimes, I swear I hear it, the wound closing
like a rusted-over garage door, and I can still move
my living limbs into the world without too much
pain, can still marvel at how the dog runs straight
toward the pickup trucks break-necking down
the road, because she thinks she loves them,
because she’s sure, without a doubt, that the loud
roaring things will love her back, her soft small self
alive with desire to share her goddamn enthusiasm,
until I yank the leash back to save her because
I want her to survive forever. Don’t die, I say,
and we decide to walk for a bit longer, starlings
high and fevered above us, winter coming to lay
her cold corpse down upon this little plot of earth.
Perhaps we are always hurtling our body towards
the thing that will obliterate us, begging for love
from the speeding passage of time, and so maybe,
like the dog obedient at my heels, we can walk together
peacefully, at least until the next truck comes.
Bronverwysing:
Limón, A. 2018.The Carrying. Milkweed Editions.