Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Jordi Doce

INCIDENT

We weren’t there when it happened.
We were on our way to another city,
another life,
under a changing sky that moved with us.
We crossed fields of green then yellow,
towns of suspicious people and impassive crows,
and not once did we miss our home
or feel nostalgia for the past.
That’s how the journey was:
at night silence,
in the morning mist.
Once I found a tin button in my pocket
and played at holding it under the sun,
throwing glimmerings onto the tall crops.
Later it was a used coin
and we had free passage at every checkpoint.
The plains of Europe are our witnesses.
They also know that something happened,
although we never saw it.
We were on our way to another country,
another life,
with neither flamboyant luggage
nor room for memories.
Everything opened before us,
now silence and later mist.

SUCESO

SUCESO

No estábamos allí cuando ocurrió.
Íbamos de camino a otra ciudad,
otra vida,
bajo un cielo cambiante que se movía con nosotros.
Cruzamos campos verdes, amarillos,
pueblos de gente suspicaz y cuervos impasibles,
y ni una vez echamos en falta nuestra casa
o sentimos nostalgia del pasado.
Así era el viaje:
por la noche silencio,
a la mañana niebla.
Una vez encontré un botón de hojalata en el bolsillo
y jugué a sostenerlo bajo el sol,
arrojando destellos a las altas espigas.
Luego fue una moneda usada
y tuvimos el paso franco en todos los controles.
Las llanuras de Europa son testigo.
Ellas saben también que algo ocurrió,
aunque nunca lo viéramos.
Íbamos de camino a otro país,
otra vida,
sin bultos estridentes,
sin lugar para el recuerdo.
Todo salía a nuestro paso,
ahora silencio y luego niebla.
Close

INCIDENT

We weren’t there when it happened.
We were on our way to another city,
another life,
under a changing sky that moved with us.
We crossed fields of green then yellow,
towns of suspicious people and impassive crows,
and not once did we miss our home
or feel nostalgia for the past.
That’s how the journey was:
at night silence,
in the morning mist.
Once I found a tin button in my pocket
and played at holding it under the sun,
throwing glimmerings onto the tall crops.
Later it was a used coin
and we had free passage at every checkpoint.
The plains of Europe are our witnesses.
They also know that something happened,
although we never saw it.
We were on our way to another country,
another life,
with neither flamboyant luggage
nor room for memories.
Everything opened before us,
now silence and later mist.

INCIDENT

We weren’t there when it happened.
We were on our way to another city,
another life,
under a changing sky that moved with us.
We crossed fields of green then yellow,
towns of suspicious people and impassive crows,
and not once did we miss our home
or feel nostalgia for the past.
That’s how the journey was:
at night silence,
in the morning mist.
Once I found a tin button in my pocket
and played at holding it under the sun,
throwing glimmerings onto the tall crops.
Later it was a used coin
and we had free passage at every checkpoint.
The plains of Europe are our witnesses.
They also know that something happened,
although we never saw it.
We were on our way to another country,
another life,
with neither flamboyant luggage
nor room for memories.
Everything opened before us,
now silence and later mist.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Hendrik Muller fonds
Lira fonds
J.E. Jurriaanse
Literature Translation Institute of Korea
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère