on lament

Original version (Maltese):

“fuq krib” by Leanne Ellul

Tegħemt il-krib tiegħek, dal-lejl.

Ridt ngħidlek waqt li kont rieqed:

ma nafx rajtnix fid-dmugħ mitluq,

xuftejja jiżloqu bżieq, u saqajja staġnati.

Int taf, li jien ma norqodx wisq,

li t-twieqi jittikawni magħluqin, u l-purtieri llamtati

nistħajjilhom passat sfurzat irid jostorna.

Taf li l-lożor imkemmxin dagħwa, balla,

u l-lożor li mhux bojod lanqas biss irrid naf bihom.

Taf ukoll li s-silenzji prekawzjoni inkarnata

fis-sikta ta’ fina, wara t-taqliba.

Dil-klawsola kkonċepejtha u ma tafx kif lissintha,

imnejn ġibtha u fejn ħżintha imma

m’hemmx għalfejn tgħidli li tħobbni, li taf xi nħobb,

kif inħobb, għax inħobb il-kwasoli kkakmati,

il-virgoli qmura jgħassuna u l-punt u l-virgola

biex minn hawn, nieħdu nifs,

u nibdew lejl fjamant.

English version:

“on lament” translated by Albert Gatt

I tasted your lament last night.

I meant to ask while you were sleeping:

if you saw me in my stagnant tears,

my lips saliva-slick, and my legs quelled.

You know I’m a bad sleeper,

can’t stand closed windows, and stiff curtains seem

to speak of pasts trying too hard to keep us under wraps.

You know that rumpled sheets are sacrilege, balled up,

and sheets have to be white or they’re beyond the pale.

You know too that silence is caution made flesh

in the stillness within, in the wake of our toil.

A clause you conceived and somehow voiced,

you’ll never know its source, where you’ve concealed it but

there’s no need to say you love me, that you know what I love,

how I love, because I love how clauses stack,

half-moon commas keeping watch and our i’s dotted, our t’s crossed

so we can take a breath from here

and start a night afresh.