Volcán

JOYCE arrepiaba coas tronadas,
mais os leóns do zoo de Zurich
ruxiron durante o seu funeral.
¿Era Zurich ou era Trieste?
Tanto ten. Sonche lerias,
o mesmo que a morte de Joyce é unha leria,
ou o tamaño rumor de Conrad estar morto
e Victoria ser un libro irónico.
No fío do horizonte nocturno,
desde esta casa á beira do espigón,
enxérganse agora, escintilando,
dous remolcadores mar afora e no abrente;
son coma a isca do cigarro
e a lava do volcán
nas últimas liñas de Victoria.
Un podería abandonar a escrita
polos sinais de vagarosa combustión
do grandioso; mesmo ser
o seu lector ideal, ruminante,
famento, que prefire amar as obras mestras
antes que tentar
repetilas ou eclipsalas,
converténdose así no mellor lector do mundo.
Cando menos é o que esixe o temor
que o noso tempo arredou;
éche tanta a xente que o viu todo,
éche tanta a xente capaz de profetizar,
tanta a que rexeita entrar no silencio
da victoria –esa indolencia
que arde no corazón–,
tanta a que, coma o cigarro,
non é máis ca cinza ergueita,
tanta a que admite a tronada.
¡Que vulgar é o relampo!
¡Que perdidos, os leviatáns
que xa non procuramos!
Daquela había xigantes.
Xacando facían cigarros espléndidos.
E vaime cumprindo ler con máis xeito.

Derek Walcott
(de Sea Grapes; Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1976)
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Tradución de Kavafinho


VOLCANO

JOYCE was afraid of thunder,
but lions roared at his funeral
from the Zurich zoo.
Was it Zurich or Trieste?
No matter. These are legends, as much
as the death of Joyce is a legend,
or the strong rumour that Conrad
is dead, and that Victory is ironic.
On the edge of the night-horizon
from this beach house on the cliffs
there are now, till dawn,
two glares from the miles-out-
at-sea derricks; they are like
the glow of the cigar
and the glow of the volcano
at Victory’s end.
One could abandon writing
for the slow-burning signals
of the great, to be, instead,
their ideal reader, ruminative,
voracious, making the love of masterpieces
superior to attempting
to repeat or outdo them,
and be the greatest reader in the world.
At least it requires awe,
which has been lost to our time;
so many people have seen everything,
so many people can predict,
so many refuse to enter the silence
of victory, the indolence
that burns at the core,
so many are no more than
erect ash, like the cigar,
so many take thunder for granted.
How common is the lightning,
how lost the leviathans
we no longer look for!
There were giants in those days.
In those days they made good cigars.
I must read more carefully.

Derek Walcott
(In Sea Grapes; Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1976)