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Felipe Juaristi, from Six Basque Poets

Baratzain

Odol truk eraiki du mundua, baratzeko baranoan.
Bihotz-arimen atsedenleku, hezur-giharren neurriko.
Mahats-aihenak estali duen horma handiaren kanpoan
Laino artetik ihesi luzatzen dena zaio atzerriko.

Loreak arin ximeltzen dira kolore batean errerik,
Txori inozoek soinu bakarra kantatzen dute airean,
Ez du itsasoa inoiz ezagutu, izokinek ekarririk
Ez bada, ondoko errekatik gora tantaz tanta joatean.

Buruz daki zuhaitz bakoitzaren izen eta dirdiraldi,
Aski du itzal iluna ikustea zein zer den ziurtatzeko.
Berea ez da hego zorrozturik kalte latz dagien Aldi.
Ez du ezer behar bizitzari men egin eta makurtzeko.

Batzuetan ziztada sakona bat-batean du sumatzen,
Barne-muinak iraultzen dizkio, eta argira atera.
Gosea ezik, maitemina da, oso aspaldiko oroitzapen.
Krabelinek usaina bezala laster galdu zuen hura.

Begiak hertsirik neskatoa dator biluzik gogora,
Gaztain kolore ditu begiak, marrubizkoak ezpainak;
Baratxuriak lakoxe hortzak, adatsa intxaur erara,
Sagar gorri beroak bularrak, laranjazkoak masailak.

Hatzak baratx mugitzen zaizkio, igali ederron bila,
Saski batean gordetzen ditu, albahaka-hostotan bilduak,
Gogobetetzen duen gorputzaren haragi-zati bailira.
Usain sarkorrak bazterrik bazter daramatza grina antzuak.

Mahaian eserita poliki, otoitzean bezala ahoa
Zabal, fruitu bizien irensle, berehala da asea.
Gorputza etzaten du ohe gainean, jabal eta naroa:
Maitasun-frogarik gozoena da maite dena jatea.

Gardener

With blood he has raised a world in this garden.
His heart and soul's repose, of flesh and bone dimensions.
The world beyond the great vine-covered wall
far removed amidst the clouds in exile.

Flowers whither quickly, burnt forever into a shade,
silly birds chirrup songs over and over again.
The mystery of the sea brought home by salmon
lapping salty droplets up river.

He knows the names of trees, their refulgent days,
their dark shadows mark which is which.
His time does not punish with sharpened wings.
With bended knee he succumbs to life.

Sometimes he buckles under a pernicious grip
that hooks his entrails, drags them into light.
It isn't hunger but the pain of a love long lost,
evanescing swiftly, like carnation scent.

Then his eyes close and she comes, naked,
her hazelnut eyes, her strawberry lips,
her chestnut hair, cloves of garlic her teeth,
two warm apples her breasts, with blushing cheeks.

With tenderness his fingers caress the precious fruits
and place them in a wicker basket with basil leaves,
as if they were flesh from the woman in his soul.
His pungent sterile passion fills the air.

He sits still at the table, his lips in prayer,
open, devourer of live fruits, at once satiated.
His body sprawls on the bed, full, content,
it is proof of love to eat your beloved.