ntre o índice e o polegar
repousa compacta a miña pluma, acomodada coma unha pistola.
Baixo a miña xanela, o son áspero e limpo
da pá que se afunde no pedregullo:
meu pai cava. Miro para el
ate que o seu lombo tenso se agacha
entre os eidos, e renace vinte anos lonxe
debruzando-se ritmicamente nos furos das patacas
onde cavava.
A zoca afirmava-se torpe no canto da pá, facia palanca
o cabo seguro contra o interior do xoello.
El arrincava as más ervas, enterrava fondo o gume brillante
para semear as patacas novas que nos colliamos
amando aquela dureza fresca nas nosas mans.
Aquel petrucio era quen de traballar coa pá.
Coma seu vello.
Meu avó cortaba mais carqueixa nun dia
que calquera outro home na braña de Toner.
Nunha ocasión levei-lle leite nunha botella
toscamente tapada con papel. Puxo-se direito
para bebé-lo, e axiña volveu a encoller-se,
a rañar e cortar con aquel xeito, erguendo as felpas
por riba do ombreiro, indo cara abaixo
pola carqueixa boa. Cavando.
O cheiro frio do balor da pataca, a labazada
na carqueixa empapada ao esmagar-se, os cortes secos dun gume
através das vívidas raiceiras despertas na miña memória.
Mas eu non teño pá para seguir a homes coma aqueles.
Entre o índice e o polegar
repousa compacta a miña pluma.
Cavarei con ela.
Seamus Heaney
(do libro "Death of a Naturalist" -1966-)
Digging
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.
Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down
Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.
The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.
By God, the old man could handle a spade.
Just like his old man.
My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner's bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.
The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I've no spade to follow men like them.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it.