XXIX

 

Negu luze orretan ai egiteko aundia nere irrika,

Bañan nere amagiarrebak, konturatzen nitzanez,

Ez zeukan bultzada ori, beti nekaldietan egon arren.

Negu lañoak loditu ziranean

Makillaz lagunduta, geldi-geldi,

Ibiltzen asi zan.

Begi urdin argiak, illuntzen ziran

Esertokitik zutitzen zan bakoitzean,

Zutitu ta berriro erori,

Ezin eramanaz il-agiñeko

Zutitzearen oiñazea.

Bere eskuak, esku trebe, ezurtsu eskuak

Zaartu ta biurrituak zeuden,

Bañan bere borondateari iñoiz ez zioten

Utsegin loturak, jostorratzak eta idazlumak,

Eusteko oraindik gauza izanaz,

Begiaren betikadak galer-arazi gabe.

Ingelesen eramankizunak beti gogoan,

Batez ere, gudalur epaietan bere bi semeenak.

Noizean bein, liburu edo eskutitzekin,

Apur batean, gogotik joaten zitzaion,

Bañan beinere, iñor ez beinere aaztu—

Percy eta John —alaz ere banekien

Oietako bat maiteagoa zuela,

Percy, alperra, jokari, seme zaarrena.

Il arte gogoratuko naiz bere aurpegia,

Abendu egun artan, gaisotegian biok,

Zauritu ta il-zorian zeudenen idazkiak idazten.

Itz xoro, bakan eta maitekorrak,

Idazten eta negar egiten.

Bat batean, goruntz begiratuaz,

Adiñeko erretorea, gaisotegian zear,

Alabearra balitz bezela.

Aldamenean geldituaz esan zion:

“Adiskide maitia, atoz etxera. Berri lazgarriak dauzkat”.

Beldur esturarik gabe begiratu,

Aurpegia ez zorrotz, ez estalki—

“Nor? Percy edo John?” galde egin zun.

“Percy”. Begiak beeratuaz: “Nere eginbearra daukat emen,

Ezin joan orain idazkiak bukatu arte. Il diranak

Bizi diranen atzetik daude” esan zun—

“Au da nere lana, gelditu bearra daukat.”

Orrela egin zun— egun luze osoan.

 

 

 

XXIX

All that long winter I wanted so much to complain, / But my mother-in-law, as far as I could see, / Felt no such impulse, though she was always in pain, / And, as the winter fogs grew thick, / Took to walking with a stick, / Heavily. / Those bubble-like eyes grew black / Whenever she rose from a chair— / Rose and fell back, / Unable to bear / The sure agonizing / Torture of rising. / Her hands, those competent bony hands, / Grew gnarled and old, / But never ceased to obey the commands / Of her will—only finding new hold / Of bandage and needle and pen / And not for the blinking / Of an eye did she ever stop thinking / Of the suffering of Englishmen, / And her two sons in the trenches. Now and then / I could forget for an instant in a book or a letter, / But she never, never forgot—either one— / Percy and John —though I knew she loved one better— / Percy, the wastrel, the gambler, the eldest son. / I think I shall always remember / Until I die / Her face that day in December, / When in a hospital ward together, she and I / Were writing letters for wounded men and dying, / Writing and crying / Over their words, so silly ald simple and loving, / Suddenly, looking up, I saw the old Vicar moving / Like fate down the hospital ward, until / He stood still / Beside her, where she sat at a bed. / ‘Dear friend, come home. I have tragic news,’ he said. / She looked straight at him without a spasm of fear, / Her face not stern or masked— / ‘Is it Percy or John?’ she asked. / ‘Percy.’ She dropped her eyes. ‘I am needed here. / Surely you know / I cannot go / Until every letter is written. The dead / Must wait on the living,’ she said. / ‘This is my work. I must stay.’ / And she did—the whole long day.