quarta-feira, 7 de agosto de 2013

The End of the Owls by Hans Magnus Enzensberger

I speak for none of your kind, 
I speak for the end of the owls.
I speak for the flounder and whale
in their unlighted house,
for the seven cornered sea,
for the glaciers

they will have calved too soon, 
raven and dove, feathery witnesses,
for all those that dwell in the sky
and the woods, and the lichen in gravel,
for those without paths, for the colorless bog
and the desolate mountains.

Glaring on radar screens, 
interpreted one final time
around the briefing table, fingered
to death by antennas, Florida's swamps
and the Siberian ice, beast
and bush and basalt strangled
by early bird, ringed
by the latest maneuvers, helpless
under the hovering fireballs, 
in the ticking of crises.

We're as good as forgotten. 
Don't fuss with the orphans,
just empty your mind
of its longing for nest eggs,
glory or psalms that won't rust.
I speak for none of you now,

all you plotters of perfect crimes, 
not for me, not for anyone.
I speak for those who can't speak,
for the deaf and dumb witnesses,
for otters and seals,
for the ancient owls of the earth.

Translated by Jerome Rothenberg  

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