Three sonnets, 9 – Tres sonets, 9

9.

translated by Anna Crowe

Into his eye death has contrived to creep.
Since then, with lid macabre, ill-fated,
his glance ressembles olives left to steep:
black and dead and sad, debilitated.
It doesn’t even cry! No whim to weep.
Glassy, about to be check-mated,
it doesn’t let a single tear-drop seep,
the olive-press is dry, soul dehydrated.
But we’re all waiting for the day we reap
the flow of olive-juice that’s generated
by woe now grounded on a reef and deep.
We’ll even lick his face—well-lubricated!
Till then, old olive-press, given up to grippe,
with olive-stones your eyes will fill, instead of sleep!

 

*     *     *

9.

Josep Pedrals

Se li va ficar la mort a l’ull.
De llavors ençà, parpre macabre,
té un mirar d’olives en remull:
negres, mortes, tristes i aixafades.
Mes, no plora, no! No té l’antull.
Vidriós i a punt per la trencada,
no deixa anar llàgrima, té el trull
sec i l’ànima deshidratada.
Tots comptem que algun dia, curull,
regalimarà suc d’olivada
d’una pena encallada a l’escull.
I encara s’hi lleparà la cara!
Fins llavors, molí que mai no mols,
se’t faran lleganyes com pinyols!

 

OLI

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