If it form the one landscape that we, the inconstant ones,
\nAre consistently homesick for, this is chiefly
\nBecause it dissolves in water. Mark these rounded slopes
\nWith their surface fragrance of thyme and, beneath,
\nA secret system of caves and conduits; hear the springs
\nThat spurt out everywhere with a chuckle,
\nEach filling a private pool for its fish and carving
\nIts own little ravine whose cliffs entertain
\nThe butterfly and the lizard; examine this region
\nOf short distances and definite places:
\nWhat could be more like Mother or a fitter background
\nFor her son, the flirtatious male who lounges
\nAgainst a rock in the sunlight, never doubting
\nThat for all his faults he is loved; whose works are but
\nExtensions of his power to charm? From weathered outcrop
\nTo hill-top temple, from appearing waters to
\nConspicuous fountains, from a wild to a formal vineyard,
\nAre ingenious but short steps that a child’s wish
\nTo receive more attention than his brothers, whether
\nBy pleasing or teasing, can easily take.<\/p>\n
Watch, then, the band of rivals as they climb up and down
\nTheir steep stone gennels in twos and threes, at times
\nArm in arm, but never, thank God, in step; or engaged
\nOn the shady side of a square at midday in
\nVoluble discourse, knowing each other too well to think
\nThere are any important secrets, unable
\nTo conceive a god whose temper-tantrums are moral
\nAnd not to be pacified by a clever line
\nOr a good lay: for accustomed to a stone that responds,
\nThey have never had to veil their faces in awe
\nOf a crater whose blazing fury could not be fixed;
\nAdjusted to the local needs of valleys
\nWhere everything can be touched or reached by walking,
\nTheir eyes have never looked into infinite space
\nThrough the lattice-work of a nomad’s comb; born lucky,
\nTheir legs have never encountered the fungi
\nAnd insects of the jungle, the monstrous forms and lives
\nWith which we have nothing, we like to hope, in common.
\nSo, when one of them goes to the bad, the way his mind works
\nRemains incomprehensible: to become a pimp
\nOr deal in fake jewellery or ruin a fine tenor voice
\nFor effects that bring down the house, could happen to all
\nBut the best and the worst of us…
\nThat is why, I suppose,
\nThe best and worst never stayed here long but sought
\nImmoderate soils where the beauty was not so external,
\nThe light less public and the meaning of life
\nSomething more than a mad camp. `Come!’ cried the granite wastes,
\n`How evasive is your humour, how accidental
\nYour kindest kiss, how permanent is death.’ (Saints-to-be
\nSlipped away sighing.) `Come!’ purred the clays and gravels,
\n`On our plains there is room for armies to drill; rivers
\nWait to be tamed and slaves to construct you a tomb
\nIn the grand manner: soft as the earth is mankind and both
\nNeed to be altered.’ (Intendant Caesars rose and
\nLeft, slamming the door.) But the really reckless were fetched
\nBy an older colder voice, the oceanic whisper:
\n`I am the solitude that asks and promises nothing;
\nThat is how I shall set you free. There is no love;
\nThere are only the various envies, all of them sad.’<\/p>\n
They were right, my dear, all those voices were right
\nAnd still are; this land is not the sweet home that it looks,
\nNor its peace the historical calm of a site
\nWhere something was settled once and for all: A back ward
\nAnd dilapidated province, connected
\nTo the big busy world by a tunnel, with a certain
\nSeedy appeal, is that all it is now? Not quite:
\nIt has a worldy duty which in spite of itself
\nIt does not neglect, but calls into question
\nAll the Great Powers assume; it disturbs our rights. The poet,
\nAdmired for his earnest habit of calling
\nThe sun the sun, his mind Puzzle, is made uneasy
\nBy these marble statues which so obviously doubt
\nHis antimythological myth; and these gamins,
\nPursuing the scientist down the tiled colonnade
\nWith such lively offers, rebuke his concern for Nature’s
\nRemotest aspects: I, too, am reproached, for what
\nAnd how much you know. Not to lose time, not to get caught,
\nNot to be left behind, not, please! to resemble
\nThe beasts who repeat themselves, or a thing like water
\nOr stone whose conduct can be predicted, these
\nAre our common prayer, whose greatest comfort is music
\nWhich can be made anywhere, is invisible,
\nAnd does not smell. In so far as we have to look forward
\nTo death as a fact, no doubt we are right: But if
\nSins can be forgiven, if bodies rise from the dead,
\nThese modifications of matter into
\nInnocent athletes and gesticulating fountains,
\nMade solely for pleasure, make a further point:
\nThe blessed will not care what angle they are regarded from,
\nHaving nothing to hide. Dear, I know nothing of
\nEither, but when I try to imagine a faultless love
\nOr the life to come, what I hear is the murmur
\nOf underground streams, what I see is a limestone landscape.<\/p>\n
Si forma l’\u00fanic paisatge que nosaltres, els inconstants,
\nconstantment enyorem, \u00e9s sobretot
\nperqu\u00e8 \u00e9s dissol en l’aigua. Adona’t d’aquests vessants arrodonits
\namb la frag\u00e0ncia a flor de pell de la farigola i, a sota,
\nun sistema secret de coves i conductes; escolta les fonts
\nque brollen per tot arreu amb una rialleta,
\ncadascuna omplint un toll privat per als seus peixos i excavant
\nles seves petites gorges als cingles a les quals s’entretenen
\nla papallona i el llargandaix; fixa’t en aquesta regi\u00f3
\nde dist\u00e0ncies curtes i llocs precisos:
\n\u00bfqu\u00e8 podria assemblar-se m\u00e9s a una mare o a un entorn adient
\nper al seu fill, el mascle que flirteja escarxofat
\nsobre una roca prenent el sol i que no dubta mai que l’estimen
\nmalgrat tots els seus defectes; les obres del qual nom\u00e9s s\u00f3n
\nperllongacions del seu poder de seducci\u00f3? Des de l’aflorament
\nerosionat fins al temple del cim del tur\u00f3, des de les aig\u00fces que
\nneixen fins a les deus consp\u00edcues, des de la vinya verge fins a la vinya endre\u00e7ada,
\ns\u00f3n ing\u00e8nues per\u00f2 curtes les passes que un infant desitj\u00f3s
\nque esgtiguin m\u00e9s per ell que els seus germans pot fer
\ncom si res, b\u00e9 afalagant, be amo\u00efnant.<\/p>\n
Mira’t doncs, les bandes rivals, mentre pugen i baixen
\npels seus costeruts carrerons de pedra de dos en dos o de tres en tres,
\na vegades de bracet, per\u00f2 mai, gr\u00e0cies a D\u00e9u, marcant el pas; o fent-la
\npetar al migdia al cant\u00f3 ombr\u00f3s d’una pla\u00e7a, nom\u00e9s xerrameca,
\nconeixent-se massa els uns als altres per pensar que hi hagi
\ncap secret important, incapa\u00e7os de concebre
\nun d\u00e9u que tingui enrabiades morals
\ni que no es calmi amb un vers intel\u00b7ligent
\no una bona rebolcada: perqu\u00e8, acostumats a una pedra que respon,
\nmai no han hagut de tapar-se els rostres, espantats
\nper un cr\u00e0ter tan furibund que no es pot controlar;
\navesats a les necessitats locals de les valls
\non tot es pot tocar o \u00e9s a l’abast nom\u00e9s caminant,
\nels seus ulls no han contemplat mai l’espai infinit
\na trav\u00e9s de la reixeta de la pinta d’un n\u00f2mada; nascuts amb bona sort,
\nles seves cames mai no han ensopegat amb els fongs
\ni els insectes de la jungla, aquestes formes i vides monstruoses
\namb les quals volem pensar que no tenim res en com\u00fa.
\nPer tant, quan un d’ells s’esgarria, continua sent comprensible
\nla manera com pensa: convertir-se en alcavot
\no traficar amb joies falses o malbaratar una bonica veu de tenor
\nper aconseguir que una sala s’ensorri li podria passar a
\nqualsevol, tret dels millors i els pitjors de nosaltres … \u00c9s per aix\u00f2, suposo,
\nque ni els uns ni els altres s’han quedat aqu\u00ed gaire temps, sin\u00f3
\nque han buscat els s\u00f2ls excessius on la bellesa no \u00e9s tan externa,
\nla llum menys p\u00fablica i el sentit de la vida
\nalguna cosa m\u00e9s que un campament embogit. “Veniu!”, van xiuxejar
\nles deixalles de granit, “que n\u00e9s d’evasiu, el vostre humor,
\nde fortu\u00eft, el vostre pet\u00f3 m\u00e9s tendre, de permanent, la mort.” (Els sants
\ndel futur van fugir sospirant). “Veniu!”, van xiuxejar les argiles
\ni les graves, “a les nostres planures hi ha lloc per que els ex\u00e8rcits hi facin
\nmaniobres; els rius esperen ser domats i els esclaus et faran una
\ntomba grandiosa: la humanitat \u00e9s suau com la terra i tots dos necessiten
\nuns retocs.” (Els c\u00e8sars del lloc es van al\u00e7ar i van marxar
\namb un cop de porta.) Per\u00f2 una veu m\u00e9s antiga i freda
\nva atreure els veritablement temeraris, la remor de l’oce\u00e0:
\n“Jo s\u00f3c la solitud que no demana ni promet res;
\n\u00e9s aix\u00ed com us far\u00e9 lliures. L’amor no existeix;
\nnom\u00e9s hi ha enveges diverses, totes tristes.”<\/p>\n
Tenien ra\u00f3, amor meu, totes aquelles veus tenien ra\u00f3
\ni encara la tenen; aquesta terra no \u00e9s la dol\u00e7a llar que sembla,
\nni la seva pau la hist\u00f2rica calma d’un indret
\non alguna s’ha resolt una vegada per totes: una prov\u00edncia
\nendarrerida i malmesa, connectada
\nal gran m\u00f3n atrafegat per un t\u00fanel, amb un cert
\nencant tronat, \u00bfoi que ja nom\u00e9s \u00e9s aix\u00f2? Gaireb\u00e9:
\nt\u00e9 un deure mund\u00e0 que, malgrat que li s\u00e0piga greu,
\nno negligeix sin\u00f3 que posa en dubte tot all\u00f2
\nque les grans pot\u00e8ncies admeten; fa nosa als nostres drets.
\nEl poeta, admirat pel seu tena\u00e7 costum d’anomenar
\nel sol sol, el seu pensament Endevinalla, se sent neguit\u00f3s
\na causa d’aquestes est\u00e0tues de marbre que dubten amb tanta
\nclaredat del seu mite antimitol\u00f2gic; i aquests trinxeraires,
\nque empaiten el cient\u00edfic per la columnata enrajolada
\ni amb uns oferiments tan vius, li retreuen l’inter\u00e8s pels aspectes
\nm\u00e9s vagues de la Natura: a mi tamb\u00e9 em recriminen tot all\u00f2
\nque coneixes tan b\u00e9. No perdre el temps, no deixar-se encal\u00e7ar,
\nno quedar enrere, i – si us plau! – , no assemblar-se a les b\u00e8sties
\nque no paren de repetir-se, ni a cap cosa com ara l’aigua
\no la pedra, el comportament de les quals es pot predir, aquest
\n\u00e9s el nostre Llibres d’Oracions, que consola sobretot amb la m\u00fasica
\nque es pot interpretar a qualsevol lloc, que \u00e9s invisible
\ni no fa olor. En la mesura que hem de contemplar la mort com
\nun fet, segur que tenim ra\u00f3: per\u00f2 si els pecats
\npoden ser perdonats, si els cossos ressuciten d’entre els morts,
\naquestes modificacions de la mat\u00e8ria en forma
\nd’atletes innocents i fonts que gesticulen,
\nfetes nom\u00e9s per al plaer, demostren encara una altra cosa:
\nals benaurats tant se’ls en d\u00f3na des de quin angle se’ls mirin,
\nperqu\u00e8 no tenen res a amagar. Amor meu, jo no s\u00e9 res de res,
\nper\u00f2 quan miro d’imaginar-me un amor impecable
\no la vida futura, all\u00f2 que sento \u00e9s la remor dels corrents
\nsubterranis, all\u00f2 que veig \u00e9s un paisatge de pedra calc\u00e0ria.<\/p>\n