L

 

Merezi al du bere alde iltzeak? Nere seme maite, kutun,

Nere maitea il egin zan, orain bere semeak

Neri, bere kanpotar amari, neurtzeko esan

Gaurko gizadiari Ingeleterraren merezia,

Beste Eden ori, paradisu-erdia,

Kutsapen eta guda-antzearen aurka

Izadiak berak eraikitako gaztelua;

Jendeki zoriontsua, mundu txikian,

Zillar-antzeko itsasoan arri bizia —

Ai ez, ori ez — Shakespeare ez — aztarle zorrotzagoa

Izan bear det. Kaltegarria egokiaretan

Aztatu, zalantzarazi, erantzuna jakin arte —

Neretzat bakarrik egiazkoa —

Nerea ez dan aberri onek zer merezimendu dauka?

 

Aspaldiko sakon aserreaz

Ingeleterraren aurkakoa,

Txamar-gorridun burrukaria, etsai okitua zan,

Burura ekarri nun nere aita —

Bigarren gaizkinai uzta au, agintari orren

Aspaldiko erokeri ta ez-jakiteak dirala ta,

Aspaldikoak, okituak — Nork zuzenki esan

Ingeleterra osoro aldatu dala — Nik ez — Nik ez.

Andikeria, ez-jakitea, erokeria, gaur egun or daude.

Oiengatik semeak il bear al du?

Azkeneko urte illun, lazgarri oiek gogora ekarri nitun,

Ingeleseri beren Agintariak gezurrak sinest-arazi,

Pake balioaren gezurra, gezurrak eta beldurrak,

Gaizkitzen duten gezurrak, zirpildu ta ametsak galdu arazten

Dituzten beldurrak.

Gizonak alkar aldentzen dituzten esiak,

Apalak igaro ezin dituzten esi ager-eziñak,

Arrokeri itsusiago, biotz gogorragorik ez dago

Kideen arrokeri ezigabekeria baño.

Oitura, izkuntza oien esi ezkutuak

Apalari aundikiak erakutsiko ez dizkionak.

Goitar bikainetatik talde txiki batek

Betidanik egon dan eta egongo dana

Laterritxo berde onen etorkizuna jaurtzen,

Xumeak goi leku oiek atzeman ez ditzaten.

Ingeleterra’ko agintariak — beren alde

Nere seme bakarra eriotzara bidali bear al det?

 

 

 

L

Is she worth dying for? My love, my one / And only love had died, and now his son / Asks me, his alien mother, to assay / The worth of England to mankind today— / This other Eden, demi-paradise, / This fortress built by Nature for herself / Against infection and the hand of war; // This happy breed of men, this little world. / This precious stone set in the silver sea— / Ah, no, not that—not Shakespeare—I must be / A sterner critic. I must weigh the ill / Against the good, must strike the balance, till / I know the answer—true for me alone— / What is she worth—this country—not my own? // I thought of my father’s deep traditional wrath / Against England—the redcoat bully—the ancient foe— / That second reaping of hate, that aftermath / Of a ruler’s folly and ignorance long ago— / Long, long ago—yet who can honestly say / England is utterly changed—not I—not I. / Arrogance, ignorance, folly are here today. / And for these my son must die? / I thought of these years, these last dark terrible years / When the leaders of England bade the English believe / Lies as the price of peace, lies and fears, / Lies that corrupt, and fears that sap and deceive. / I thought of the bars dividing man from man, / Invisible bars that the humble may not pass, / And how no pride is uglier, crueller than / The pride unchecked of class. / Oh, those invisible bars of manners and speech, / Ways that the proud man will not teach / The humble lest they too reach / Those splendid heights where a little band / Have always stood and will always stand / Ruling the fate of this small green land, / Rulers of England—for them must I / Send out my only son to die?