Saturday, April 24, 2004

Gitar

Sajak Federico Garcia Lorca



Dengar ratap rintih gitar itu

mulai mengiang.

Gelas-gelas fajar pecah

terhempas terbanting.

Ratap rintih gitar itu

terdengar lagi.

Membisukannya?

Ah, tak ada guna.

Dia merintih: menyanyi satu lagu

seperti rintih arus

seperti rintih angin

melintas di padang salju.

Mustahil saja,

membekap mulutnya.

Dia merintih untuk

dia yang jauh di sana.

Padang pasir di selatan kepanasan,

merindukan putih bunga camellia.

Rintih anak panah lepas tanpa sasaran

malam tanpa pagi

dan burung pertama yang mati

di secabang pohon.

Oh, gitar!

Hati yang terbantai sampai mati

ditebas lima mata pedang.







Oldman with Guitar, PICASSO



The Guitar



The weeping of the guitar

begins.

The goblets of dawn

are smashed.

The weeping of the guitar

begins.

Useless

to silence it.

Impossible

to silence it.

It weeps monotonously

as water weeps

as the wind weeps

over snowfields.

Impossible

to silence it.

It weeps for distant

things.

Hot southern sands

yearning for white camellias.

Weeps arrow without target

evening without morning

and the first dead bird

on the branch.

Oh, guitar!

Heart mortally wounded

by five swords