Versión libre: abril 2010

Sembrador: ha sobrado la lluvia.
Ya mi pena ha rendido su espiga.
Dame el fuego que anima a la zarza,
retribúyeme el ciento, o siégame.

by John Burnside

She loved the wet whisper of silt
when tidewater seeped away
and the estuary rose to the town
through copper light,

a tender of glass and scales
and driftwood varnished with salt,
a circle she walked for miles
in search of shells,

picking starfish from a sheet
of silver tension, puzzled by the trails
of viscera, the threads of bloodless meat
and resurrected forms that had no names

but offered kinship, memory, regret,
a pulse between the water and her hand,
the feel of something old and buried deep,
heartbeat and vision quickening the sand.

Versión libre

domingo, 18 de abril de 2010

Oración del trigo