Brezilyali sair ve diplomat João Cabral de Melo Neto’nun olum yildonumu ( 9 Ekim 1999 )
Nehir ikiye boluyordu sehri
sokakta karsidan karsiya gecen
bir kopek,
meyveyi ikiye ayiran
bir kilic gibi.
Bir kopegin uysal dilini
ya da huzunlu karnini
ya da bir kopegin gozlerinin
kirli islak bezi olan
bir baska nehri
hatirlatiyordu nehir.
Tuysuz
bir kopek gibiydi nehir.
ne mavi yagmurdan haberi vardi,
ne de gul rengi pinardan,
ne bardaktaki sudan,
ne surahilerdeki sudan,
ne sudaki baliklardan,
ne de suyun uzerindeki ruzgardan.
Bildigi yengeclerle
camur ve pasti,
balgam gibi yapiskan
camuru da biliyordu.
herhalde ahtapotu
ve kesinlikle
istiridyeler icinde yasayan
atesli kadini da biliyor olmaliydi.
Nehir
baliklara hic acilmaz
ne titrek isiga,
ne de baliklardaki
o bicaksirti tedirginlige
acilir,
baliklara hic acilmaz.
Ciceklerle acilir
yoksul ve kara
kara derili adamlar ve kadinlar gibi.
Dilenmek zorunda olan
zenciler gibi bakimsiz
bitkilere acilir.
bir zencinin kecelesmis
saclari gibi sert yaprakli
mangrovlarda acilir.
Gebe bir kopegin
yumusak karni gibi
catlamadan.
siser nehir.
Bir kopegin dogumu gibidir
nehrin dogumu,
akiskan ve omurgasiz.
kaynayip kopurdugunu de hic gormedim
( ekmegin piserken
kabardigi gibi ).
Sessizce tasir nehir sisen yoksullugunu
kara toprakla gebe.
sessizce koyverir kendini:
el ya da ayak diye
kara kil pelerinler,
kara kil cizme ya da eldivenlerle
icine dalanlara.
Zaman zaman
kopekler gibi nehir de
kokar sanki.
sulari koyulasir
ve isinir,
bir yilanin
koyu ilik dalgalanisiyla
akarak.
Sanki bir akil hastasinin
durgunlugu vardir nehirde.
hastanelerin, hapishanelerin,
yetimhanelerin, kirli ve yarali
hayatlarin, icinden suruklenip
gectigi ( kirli ve bogucu
camasirlarin ) durgunlugu.
Sanki kuf ve okseotu
burumus
curuyen saraylarin
durgunlugu.
Icinden suruklenerek gectigi
o pernambuco yemek odalarinin
bin turlu seker akitan
kalin govdeli agaclarin durgunlugu.
( iste orada,
sehrin ‘ kulturlu aileleri ’
sirtlarini nehre donmus,
kara kara dusunuyorlar
duzyazilarinin siskin yumurtalarini.
mutfaklarinin huzuru icinde
yuzsuzce karistiriyorlar
yapiskan tembelliklerinin
tencerelerini. )
Herhangi bir agacin
meyvesi olabilir mi bu nehir ?
neden boyle olgunlasmis
bir suymus gibi gorunuyor ?
neden uzerindeki sinekler
her an konacaklarmis gibi.
Bu nehir sulari hic
sevincten cavlanlar gibi sicramis mi ?
hic akip gittigi bir yerde
bir sarki ya da pinar olmus mu ?
oyleyse
neden maviye boyamislar gozlerini
haritalarda ?
The city is crossed by the river
as a street
is crossed by a dog,
a piece of fruit
by a sword.
The river called to mind
a dog's docile tongue,
or a dog's sad belly,
or that other river
which is the dirty wet cloth
of a dog's two eyes.
The river was
like a dog without feathers.
It knew nothing of the blue rain,
of the rose-colored fountain,
of the water in a water glas,
of the water in pitchers,
of the fish in the water,
of the breeze on the water.
It knew the crabs
of mud and rust.
It knew silt
like a mucous membrane.
It must have known the octopus,
and surely knew
the feverish woman living in oysters.
The river
never opens up to fish,
to the shimmer,
to the knifely unrest
existing in fish.
It never opens up in fish.
It opens up in flowers,
poor and black
like black men and women.
It opens up into a flora
as squalid and beggarly
as the blacks who must beg.
It opens up in hard-leafed
mangroves, kinky
as a black man's hair.
Smooth like the belly
of the pregnant dog,
the river swells
without ever bursting.
The river's childbirth
is like a dog's,
fluid and invertebrate.
And I never saw it seethe
( as bread when rising
seethes ).
In silence
the river bears its bloating poverty,
pregnant with black earth.
It yields in silence:
in black earthern capes,
in black earthen boots or gloves
for the foot or hand
that plunges in.
As sometimes happens
with dogs, the river
seemed to stagnate.
Its waters would turn
thicker and warmer,
flowing with the thick
warm waves
of a snake.
It had something
of a crazy man's stagnation.
Something of the stagnation
of hospitals, prisons, asylums,
of the dirty and smothered life
( dirty, smothering laundry )
it trudged through.
Something of the stagnation
of decayed palaces,
eaten
by mold and mistletoe.
Something of the stagnation
of obese trees
dripping a thousand sugars
from the Pernambuco dining rooms
it trudges through.
( It is there,
with their backs to the river,
that the city's ' cultured families '
brood over the fat eggs
of their prose.
In the complete peace of their kitchens
they viciously stir
their pots
of sticky indolence. )
Could the river's water
be the fruit of some tree ?
Why did it seem
like ripened water ?
Why the flies always
above it, as it about to land ?
Did any part of the river
ever cascade in joy ?
Was it ever, anywhere,
a song or fountain ?
Why then
were its eyes painted blue
on maps ?


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