Versindaba kompetisie vir vertaalde gedigte (49)
Maya Angelou. Vertaling van Engels in Afrikaans. Vert. deur Marieta McGrath.
Wanneer groot bome val
Wanneer groot bome val,
sidder die klippe op ‘n duisend heuwels,
lê leeus laag
in die lang gras,
boemel selfs die olifante
na veiligheid.
Wanneer groot bome val
in die woud,
keer alles wat klein is in hulself,
hul sinne
verby vrees verstomp.
Wanneer groot siele sterf,
word die lug om ons
lig, raar, steriel.
Ons haal asem, vlugtig.
Ons oë sien, vlugtig,
met pynlike klaarheid.
Herinnering, skielik verskerp,
doen ondersoek,
kou aan sagte woorde
ongesê,
beloofde wandelinge
nooit onderneem nie.
Groot siele sterf en
wat vir ons werklik was,
verlaat ons.
Ons siele,
afhanklik van hul
koestering,
krimp en verskrompel.
Ons verstand, verlig
en toegelig deur hul
lig,
val weg.
Ons word nie soveel waansinnig
as gereduseer tot die onuitspreeklike afsydigheid
van donker, koue
grotte nie.
En wanneer groot siele sterf,
sal daar na ‘n tyd weer vrede blom,
geleidelik, maar altyd
sporadies. Ruimtes vul
met ‘n soort
sussende elektriese vibrasie.
Ons sinne, herstel, maar nooit weer
dieselfde nie, fluister, fluister in ons ore:
Hulle was. Hulle was.
Ons kan wees. Ons kan wees, ons kan
beter wees. Want hulle was.
***
When great trees fall
Maya Angelou
When great trees fall,
rocks on distant hills shudder,
lions hunker down
in tall grasses,
and even elephants
lumber after safety.
When great trees fall
in forests,
small things recoil into silence,
their senses
eroded beyond fear.
When great souls die,
the air around us becomes
light, rare, sterile.
We breathe, briefly.
Our eyes, briefly,
see with
a hurtful clarity.
Our memory, suddenly sharpened,
examines,
gnaws on kind words
unsaid,
promised walks
never taken.
Great souls die and
our reality, bound to
them, takes leave of us.
Our souls,
dependent upon their
nurture,
now shrink, wizened.
Our minds, formed
and informed by their
radiance,
fall away.
We are not so much maddened
as reduced to the unutterable ignorance
of dark, cold
caves.
And when great souls die,
after a period peace blooms,
slowly and always
irregularly. Spaces fill
with a kind of
soothing electric vibration.
Our senses, restored, never
to be the same, whisper to us.
They existed. They existed.
We can be. Be and be
better. For they existed.
Bronverwysing:
Angelou, Maya. 1990. I shall not be moved. New York: Random House.