Lautanen Guatemalan verta
Kaj Chydenius| Original | Traduzione inglese della poesia di Pablo Neruda / English translation... |
| LAUTANEN GUATEMALAN VERTA Ateria piispalle, katkera hakkelus, annos romurautaa, tuhkaa, kyyneleitä, lautanen Guatemalan verta. Ateria pankkiirille, etelän lasten poskipäitä, annos räjähdyksiä, raunioita, kauhua, lautanen Guatemalan verta. Ateria everstille ja everstin rouvalle, varuskunnan juhlissa, kaikissa juhlissa, lautanen Guatemalan verta. Niin, ateria kaikille teille rikkaat läheltä ja kaukaa, lähettiläät, ministerit, kammottavat pöytäkumppanit, mukavaa teetä juovat naiset mukavisssa tuoleissa: sotkuinen läikehtivä annos likaista köyhää verta, joka ainoa aamu, joka ainoa viikko, aina ja aina, lautanen Guatemalan verta edessänne aina. Joka ainoa aamu, joka ainoa viikko, aina ja aina, lautanen Guatemalan verta edessänne aina. Joka ainoa aamu, joka ainoa viikko, aina ja aina, lautanen Guatemalan verta edessänne aina. | ALMERÍA A plate for the Bishop, a plate chewed and bitter, A plate of steel scraps, of ashes and tears, A plate brimming over with fallen walls and sobs, A plate for the Bishop, a plate of Almería's blood. A plate for the banker, a plate of cheeks of children from the happy South, a plate of explosions, mad waters, of ruins and terror, a plate of broken ankles and trampled heads. Each morning, each murky morning of your life, you'll have it steaming and hot on your table: you'll push it back a bit with your soft soft hands so as not to see it, not to eat it so often; you'll push it back a bit between the bread and the grapes, this plate of silent blood that will be there each morning, every morning. A plate for the Colonel and the Colonel's wife, at a garrison party, at every party, over curses and spit, with the dawn's light of wine, so you'll look out over the world, trembling and cold. Yes, a plate for you all, rich ones everywhere, ambassadors, ministers, atrocious dinner-guests, ladies with comfortable tea and bottoms: a plate destroyed, overflowing, filthy with the blood of the poor, each morning, each week, forever and ever, a plate of blood from Almería before you, forever. |
