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.

Ioana Tudor

Gabriel Griffin

Lamentatie pentru un imigrant ilegal

Nu e luna, dar pescarii

sunt obisnuiti cu asta si cu muzica marii, cantecele navoadelor. Puntile

poleite in argintiu cu versuri marine, tonalitatile joase si inalte ale pestilor

domolite in carti de muzica glaciale.

Ceva nu canta, inghesuit

in navod, dupaind pe punte.

Urechile sale nu percepeau notele, ochii sai erau orbi la oamenii ce-i stateau alaturi,

gatul sau era inecat de cuvinte

pe care nimeni nu le putea auzi.

Au lasat caracatita vicleana

sa se furiseze pe marginea vasului, au uitat sa opreasca

arcuirile alternate ale platicilor.

Marea jelea, pestii

s-au dezacordat, martinii de mare

au aruncat tipete ca de corzi rupte.

Oamenii s-au dezghetat, au batut ritmul

a ceea ce nu putea fi cantat, a ceea ce era pierdut pentru cuvinte,

pe puntea suieranda. Au batut ritmul

a ceea ce nu avea speranta, si nici nu avusese,

inapoi pe mare. Niciun

cuvant, niciun imn, nicio ruga.

Dar tipetele hainelor lui au izbucnit. Marea

a batut cu pumnii in barca. Iar vantul s-a pornit

urland pana in zori.