CARTA A UN ARQUEÓLOGO
Ciudadano, enemigo, nene de mamá, idiota, completa
basura, mendigo, canalla,
refugiado, chiflado;
un cuero cabelludo tantas veces metido en agua hirviendo
que el diminuto cerebro se siente totalmente cocinado.
Sí, vivimos acá, entre estos escombros de concreto,
ladrillo,
madera, a los que ahora ustedes vienen a revisar de cabo a
rabo.
Teníamos todos los cables cruzados, electrificados,
enredados y trenzados.
Y también: no amamos a nuestras mujeres pero nos daban
hijos.
Agudo es el sonido de la pica que lastima al hierro muerto; igual,
es más suave de lo que nos dijeron o de lo que nosotros
mismos dijimos.
¡Extranjero!, movete con cuidado entre nuestra carroña:
lo que parece carroña para vos, es libertad para nuestras
células.
Dejá nuestros nombres en paz. No reconstruyas esas vocales,
consonantes y demás: no se van a parecer a las alondras
sino a un sabueso demente que devora con sus fauces
sus propios rastros, heces, y ladra, y ladra.
Versión de Tom Maver
ºººººº
LETTER TO AN ARCHEOLOGIST
Citizen, enemy, mama's boy, sucker, utter
garbage, panhandler, swine, refujew, verrucht;
a scalp so often scalded with boiling water
that the puny brain feels completely cooked.
Yes, we have dwelt here: in this concrete, brick, wooden
rubble which you now arrive to sift.
All our wires were crossed, barbed, tangled, or interwoven.
Also: we didn't love our women, but they conceived.
Sharp is the sound of pickax that hurts dead iron;
still, it's gentler than what we've been told or have said ourselves.
Stranger! move carefully through our carrion:
what seems carrion to you is freedom to our cells.
Leave our names alone. Don't reconstruct those vowels,
consonants, and so forth: they won't resemble larks
but a demented bloodhound whose maw devours
its own traces, feces, and barks, and barks.
garbage, panhandler, swine, refujew, verrucht;
a scalp so often scalded with boiling water
that the puny brain feels completely cooked.
Yes, we have dwelt here: in this concrete, brick, wooden
rubble which you now arrive to sift.
All our wires were crossed, barbed, tangled, or interwoven.
Also: we didn't love our women, but they conceived.
Sharp is the sound of pickax that hurts dead iron;
still, it's gentler than what we've been told or have said ourselves.
Stranger! move carefully through our carrion:
what seems carrion to you is freedom to our cells.
Leave our names alone. Don't reconstruct those vowels,
consonants, and so forth: they won't resemble larks
but a demented bloodhound whose maw devours
its own traces, feces, and barks, and barks.
