A la mañana le da igual sobre qué amanece:
sobre riñas de grajos en árboles frondosos;
sobre ese dandi de los pantanos, el pato deslizándose
garboso entre los carrizos; sobre la zancuda
de blanca enagua que baila por la marisma;
sobre el ostrero de puntitas a la bajamar.
Al sol le da igual sobre qué sale:
sobre ventanas que dan a plazuelas dieciochescas;
sobre enjambres de abejas bombardeando jardines suburbanos;
sobre parejas de jóvenes que bostezan al unísono antes de
hacerlo otra vez; sobre el rocío como sudor o lágrimas
en los lirios y las rosas; sobre tus hombros desnudos.
Pero a nosotros no nos da igual que se acaben
las horas de la noche; que debamos conformarnos con los hechos
de hoy, inclinarnos y pegar de algún modo
los fragmentos insignificantes de nuestras vidas, para que
nuestros hijos puedan beber agua en tazones rotos,
no en el cuenco de las manos. No nos da para nada igual.
Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill (Lancashire, Reino Unido, 1952) Revista Ñ, nº 913, Buenos Aires, 27 de marzo de 2021
Traducción de Flora Button-Burlá
Aubade
Is cuma leis an mhaidin cad air a ngealann sí -
ar na cáganna ag bruíon is ag achrann ins na crainn
dhuilleogacha; ar an mbardal glas ag snámh go tóstalach
i measc na ngiolcach ins na curraithe; ar thóinín bán
an chircín uisce ag gobadh aníos as an bpoll portaigh;
ar roilleoga ag siúl go cúramach ar thránna móra.
Is cuma leis an ghrian cad air a n-éiríonn sí -
ar na tithe bríce, ar fhuinneoga de ghloine snoite
is gearrtha i gcearnóga Seoirseacha: ar na saithí beach
ag ullmhú chun creach a dhéanamh ar ghairdíní bruachbhailte;
ar lánúine óga fós ag méanfach i gcomhthiúin is fonn
a gcúplála ag éirí aníos iontu; ar dhrúcht ag glioscarnach
ina dheora móra ar lilí is ar róiseanna; ar do ghuaille.
Ach ní cuma linn bhfuil an oíche aréir
thart, is go gcathfear glacadh le pé rud a sheolfaidh
an lá inniu an tslí; go gcaithfear imeacht is cromadh síos
arís is píosaí beaga brealsúnta ár saoil a dhlúthú
le chéile ar chuma éigin, chun gur féidir
lenár leanaí uisce a ól as babhlaí briste
in ionad as a mbosa, ní cuma linne é.
AUBADE
Translation of ‘Aubade’ by Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill - Michael Longley
It’s all the same to morning what it draws on –
On the bickering of jackdaws in leafy trees;
On that dandy from the wetlands, the green mallard’s
Stylish glissando among reeds; on the moorhen
Whose white petticoat flickers around the boghole;
On the oystercatcher on the tiptoe at low tide.
It’s all the same to the sun what it rises on –
On the windows in the houses in Georgian squares;
On bees swarming to blitz suburban gardens;
On young couples yawning in unison before
They do it again; on dew like sweat or tears
On lilies and roses; on your bare shoulders.
But it isn’t all the same to us that night-time
Runs out; that we must make do with today’s
Happenings, and stoop and somehow glue together
The silly little shards of our lives, so that
Our children can drink water from broken bowls,
Not from cupped hands. It isn’t the same at all.
A word from Catherine Ann Cullen, Poet in Residence at
Poetry Ireland:
An aubade is a dawn love song, in the same way that a serenade is an evening love song. In this poem, Ní Dhomhnaill begins the first two stanzas with the “don’t care” phrase in Irish, “Is cuma”. “Is cuma leis an mhaidin/an ghrian...” (Neither the morning nor the sun care what they rise to: quarrelling jackdaws or careful oystercatchers, Georgian windows, suburban bees, lovers ready to mate again.) But in the third stanza, the lovers do care - that night is over and they must satisfy the day’s demands, so their children can drink from “babhlaí briste” (broken bowls) rather than their “mbosa” (palms).
