Gabriel Griffin

Lament for an illegal immigrant

No moon, but fishermen

are used to that and the sea’s chanting,

the descant of the nets. The decks

silvered with sea verses,

the minims and trebles of fish

hushed into songbooks of ice.

Something didn’t sing, humped

in the net, thudding onto the deck.

Its ears heard no notes, its eyes

were blind to the men standing round,

its throat choked with words

that no-one would hear.

They let the sly octopus

sidle to the ship’s side, forgot to stop

the arch and leap of bream.

The sea moaned, the fish

slipped out of tune, the kittiwakes

hurled screeches like broken strings.

The men unfroze, thumped

what didn’t sing, what was lost for words, over the hissing deck. Tipped what had

no hope, had never had a hope,

back to the sea. No

word, no hymn, no prayer.

But the rags of its clothes cried. The sea

beat its fists on the boat. And the wind got up

and howled till dawn.

Alina Stan

Gabriel Griffin

Tanguire pentru un imigrant ilegal

Nu-i luna, dar pescarii

sunt obisnuiti cu susurul marii,

sunetul navoadelor aruncate. Puntile

poleite cu versurile dulci ale marii,

multimile de pesti

redusi la tacere in cartile muzicale de sub gheata.

Ceva n-a cantat, s-a ghemuit

in navod si a cazut cu un zgomot surd pe punte.

Urechile-i nu au auzit niciun sunet, ochii

nu au vazut oamenii din jur,

s-a inecat cu cuvinte

neauzite de nimeni.

Au lasat caracatita retrasa

sa alunece in lateralul vasului, au uitat

sa opreasca arcul si saltul calcanului.

Marea a gemut, pestii au pierdut linia melodica, albatrosii

au tipat ascutit ca niste coarde dezacordate.

Barbatii s-au miscat din nou, insotindu-si cantecul

de batai, ritmul ce nu se putea exprima in cuvinte,

deasupra puntii suieratoare. I-au azvarlit

pe cei ce nu aveau scapare şi n-au avut niciodata,

inapoi in mare.

Niciun cuvant, niciun imn, nicio rugaciune.

Dar zdrentele-i plangeau. Marea

si-a azvarlit potopul de pumni asupra barcii. Iar vantul s-a ridicat

si a urlat pana-n zori.