THE CEMETERY, THE HOURS, & MRS. DEATH

I

Pels rials baixa el carro
del sol, des de carenes
de fonollars i vinyes
que jo sempre recordo.
I passejaré per l’ordre
de verds xiprers immòbils
damunt la mar en calma.

I

The sun’s chariot drifts down
the gullies from fennel and vine-
covered hills I always see
in memory.
And I will stroll among the rows
of motionless green cypresses¹
above the calm sea.

#

II

Quina petita pàtria
encercla el cementiri!
Aquesta mar, Sinera,
turons de pins i vinya,
pols de rials. No estimo
res més, excepte l’ombra
viatgera d’un núvol.
El lent record dels dies
que són passats per sempre.

II

How tiny the homeland
that surrounds the graveyard.
This sea, Sinera,
the pine and vineyard-covered hills,
the dusty riverbeds. I love nothing more
than the shadow
of a drifting cloud.
The slow memory
of days
forever gone.

#

III

Sense cap nom ni símbol,
ran dels xiprers, dessota
un poc de pols sorrenca,
endurida de pluges.
O que l’oratge escampi
la cendra per les barques
i els solcs dibuixadíssims
i la llum de Sinera.
Claror d’abril, de pàtria
que mor amb mi, quan miro
els anys i el pas: viatge
al llarg de lents crepuscles.

III

Without name or symbol,
beside the cypress trees,
below a handful of dusty sand
hardened by rain.
Oh, that the storm might scatter
the ashes over the boats,
and the deep furrows
and the light of Sinera.
The brightness of April and of this homeland
that is dying with me as I watch
the years pass by: the journey
through slow dusk.

#

IV

Els meus ulls ja no saben
sinó contemplar dies
i sols perduts. Com sento
rodar velles tartanes
pels rials de Sinera!
Al meu record arriben
olors de mar vetllada
per clars estius. Perdura
en els meus dits la rosa
que vaig collir. I als llavis,
oratge, foc, paraules
esdevingudes cendra.

IV

My eyes can do no more
than contemplate lost days
and suns. How I hear now
the rattling wheels of old horse carts
on Sinera’s dry riverbeds.
Memories of sea scents
bring back clear summers keeping watch
over the waves. The rose
I plucked lingers in my hand.
And on my lips, wind, fire, words
now turned to ashes.

#

V

Pels portals de Sinera
passo captant engrunes
de vells records. Ressona
als carrers en silenci
el feble prec inútil.
Cap caritat no em llesca
el pa que jo menjava,
el temps perdut. M’esperen
tan sols, per fer-me almoina,
fidels xiprers verdíssims.

V

Passing through Sinera’s gates
grasping at crumbs of old memories.
My frail, useless prayers
echo in the silent streets.
Charity never cut the bread I ate,
the time I lost. Waiting for me,
my only hope for alms,
are the faithful, verdant cypress trees.

#

VI

Les aranyes filaven
palaus de rei,
estances que empresonen
passos d’hivern.
Les barques de Sinera
no surten més,
perquè els camins de l’aigua
són fets malbé.
El sol no pot estendre,
per als ulls cecs,
domassos de les festes
damunt el gel.
Als rials ja no sona
cap cascavell.
Avanço per rengleres
de xiprers.

VI

Spiders have spun
palaces for kings,
rooms that imprison
winter’s footsteps.
Sinera’s boats
no longer leave port
because the pathways of the sea
are broken.
The sun cannot help
blind eyes see festive damasks
spread over ice.
There is no sound
of cowbells on the dry riverbeds.
I make my way between long rows
of cypress trees.

#

VII

Arriba el raïm tendre,
portat per dits benèvols
del sant màrtir de plata.
En processó tremolen
llumenetes de ciris
i acompanyen la tarda
a ben morir: viàtic
dels records de Sinera.
Per contemplar-los pujo
on el xiprer vigila.
Clarors de lluna besen
jerarquia de cimes.

VII

The tender grapes arrive,
brought by the benevolent
fingers of the martyred saint of silver.²
Lit candles tremble in the procession
that accompanies the evening
to a good death: the last rites
for the memory of Sinera.
To contemplate them I climb
to where the cypress tree keeps watch.
Bright moonlight kisses the treetops.

#

VIII

Plourà. L’àvia Muntala
desa el sol a l’armari
del mal temps, entre puntes
de mantellina fetes
per ditets de Sinera.
Algun ocell voldria
penetrar les difícils
presons de llum. Contemplo
serens xiprers a l’ample
jardí del meu silenci.
Passen dofins pels límits
d’aquesta mar antiga.

VIII

It will rain. Grandma Muntala³
puts the sun away in a cupboard
of bad weather, among the manila lace
stitched by small Sineran fingers.
Some bird would like
to pierce the dense
prison walls of light. I contemplate
the serene cypress trees in the vast
garden of my silence.
Dolphins pass by in the far reaches
of this ancient sea.

#

IX

Vol de records de pluja
aguditzà el suplici
d’aquestes flors que moren
al fràgil pas harmònic
de la tarda i de l’aigua.
Com calla el mar! Enlaire,
triomf, destí, reialme,
escomesa de puntes.
Els xiprers recollien
claror de cel plorada
en miralls momentanis.

IX

Flights of remembered rain
sharpened the agony
of these flowers, dying
in fragile harmony
with the afternoon and water.
How silent the sea! From on high
wait daggers of triumph, fate, and kingdom.⁴
The cypress trees hold
the brightness of a sky that wept
in momentary mirrors.

#

X

Ordenador de rengles
de xiprers i silenci,
conferiré serena
autoritat de màgics
ceptres a mans augustes.
Vent nocturn, himne, bronze
antic contra l’exèrcit
de la pluja, difícil
solitud retrobada.
Déus pastors amuntanyen
dòcils ramats de núvols.

X

Arranger of rows
of cypress trees and silence,
I will bestow the serene
authority of magic
scepters on august hands.
Night wind, hymns, ancient bronze
against the army
of rain, hard
solitude once again.
Shepherd gods drive meek flocks of summer clouds
up the mountains.

#

XI

La pluja mor, oferta
mirall d’ella mateixa.
Llums vacil lants atrauen
     lentes falenes.

El vent nocturn parava
als camps, al cementiri.
Quan torni a desvetllar-se,
     serà el nou dia.

XI

The rain dies, offering
up its mirrored image.
Flickering lights draw
     slow moths.

The night wind ceased
in the fields, in the cemetery.
When it wakes again
     it will be a new day.

¹Cypress trees are commonly found in Catalan and other Christian cemeteries as symbols of eternal life. They abound in Catalan landscape and appear frequently in Espriu’s work symbolizing of both death and spiritual longing.

²The poem uses the image of the viaticum procession, where the host and wine are brought to a dying person as part of the last rights, in a container or containers made of silver.

³“Grandma Muntala” personifies a mountain in Catalonia.

⁴The literal translation of Line 7 is “...sharp edges of triumph, fate, kingdom.”