La tortuga
quiebra la azul y negra
piel del agua, arrastrando el caparazón
con sus musgosas placas
a través de bancos de arena, cruzando los juncos
y por sobre las costas, hacia donde la tierra se eleva,
hacia la arena blanca
para cavar con sus torpes patas
un nido y acomodarse ahí, volcando
sus blancos huevos
en la oscuridad, y vos pensás
en su paciencia, su fortaleza,
su determinación para completar
aquello para lo que nació-
y ahí te das cuenta de algo aún mayor-
ella no considera
aquello para lo que nació.
Sólo está repleta
con un viejo y ciego deseo.
Ni siquiera es suyo pero le llegó
en la lluvia o en el viento suave,
que es una puerta a través de la cual su vida sigue caminando.
No puede verse
a sí misma apartada del resto del mundo
o el mundo apartado de lo que ella debe hacer
cada primavera.
Subiendo a gatas la alta colina,
luminosa bajo la arena con que se ha cubierto la piel,
no sueña
que sabe
que es una parte de la laguna donde vive,
que los altos árboles son sus hijos,
que los pájaros que nadan encima suyo
están atados a ella por un hilo irrompible.
Versión de Tom Maver
ººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººº
The Turtle
breaks from the blue-black
skin of the water, dragging her shell
with its mossy scutes
across the shallows and through the rushes
and over the mudflats, to the uprise,
to the yellow sand,
to dig with her ungainly feet
a nest, and hunker there spewing
her white eggs down
into the darkness, and you think
skin of the water, dragging her shell
with its mossy scutes
across the shallows and through the rushes
and over the mudflats, to the uprise,
to the yellow sand,
to dig with her ungainly feet
a nest, and hunker there spewing
her white eggs down
into the darkness, and you think
of her patience, her fortitude,
her determination to complete
what she was born to do----
and then you realize a greater thing----
she doesn’t consider
what she was born to do.
She’s only filled
with an old blind wish.
It isn’t even hers but came to her
in the rain or the soft wind
which is a gate through which her life keeps walking.
her determination to complete
what she was born to do----
and then you realize a greater thing----
she doesn’t consider
what she was born to do.
She’s only filled
with an old blind wish.
It isn’t even hers but came to her
in the rain or the soft wind
which is a gate through which her life keeps walking.
She can’t see
herself apart from the rest of the world
or the world from what she must do
every spring.
Crawling up the high hill,
luminous under the sand that has packed against her skin,
she doesn’t dream
she knows
she is a part of the pond she lives in,
the tall trees are her children,
the birds that swim above her
are tied to her by an unbreakable string.
herself apart from the rest of the world
or the world from what she must do
every spring.
Crawling up the high hill,
luminous under the sand that has packed against her skin,
she doesn’t dream
she knows
she is a part of the pond she lives in,
the tall trees are her children,
the birds that swim above her
are tied to her by an unbreakable string.
from New and Selected Poems, Beacon Press, New York
