Written by Immanuel Mifsud
Translated by Ruth Ward
& Immanuel Mifsud
You might get sleepy as you look
at the throng gathering in the square,
despite the band playing cheerful marches,
making colorful merriment on this Sunday morn.
When the parade is over, and people go back to sleep,
silence and absence return, bringing with them reality.
And you turn your eye to the architecture —
noiseless, save the whispering of a long, ancient story
that no matter how many times you may hear it,
still leaves you rapt, eager to listen once more.
You know: you own a part of this story.
Your voice might still be suspended from some arch,
wedged in the cool shade of a balcony,
peering silently through some window,
waiting stock-still behind a corner.
In this street lie your footsteps,
which sometimes get up again and walk,
without a sound, invisible.
You’ve become part of every city you’ve ever been to.
And you’ll remain there without anyone knowing, or remembering you.
Whatever has happened cannot be deleted.
*
Jaf jibda jaqbdek in-ngħas int u tħares
lejn din il-folla miġbura fil-pjazza,
minkejja l-banda ddoqq marċi ferrieħa
u l-briju kulurit dal-Ħadd filgħodu.
La jgħaddi l-marċ u n-nies tmur lura torqod,
is-sikta u l-assenza jġibuk lura
biex toqgħod tħares lejn l-arkitettura
li qatt ma tlissen xejn għajr storja twila
li allavolja smajtha ħafna drabi
tibqa’ lest toqgħod tiċċassa ħa tisma’.
Int taf: għandek parti minn dar-rakkont.
Leħnek jaf għadu mdendel ma’ xi ħnejja,
imgeddes f ’rokna ta’ xi gallarija,
jittawwal mingħajr ħoss wara xi tieqa,
wieqaf fil-kwiet maġenb xi kantuniera.
Fit-triq għad hemm il-passi ta’ saqajk
li xi kultant jaf jerġgħu jibdew jimxu,
mingħajr ma jagħmlu ħoss, mingħajr ma jidhru.
Sirt parti minn kull belt li żort. Se tibqa’
magħruf bla ħadd ma jafek jew jiftakrek.
Dak li ġara mhu se jitħassar qatt.
First published in the Maltese by Klabb Kotba Maltin