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He used to go to Xirágáá1 to exchange
peaches for corn and beans
to give as offerings at mass on Sunday
and to conjure the spirits that would allow
his son to descend from the Sierra
or at least light up the way
so he would find the way home.
His granddaughters
couldn’t wait to see him
for the colourful dresses
he had promised them,
which they would wear the day of his return.
Night fell upon him on the way
his feet prayed to the weariness of wanderlust
his eyelids hid the moon
and he hung the key to the church on his chest.
He dreamt he was a bell
calling out for the disappeared
and he tolled: ding, dang, dong-dong.
He woke worrying
for the morning was dressed in blood
and the bodies
that were left without offerings
were thirsty.
That’s how the people of Marutsíí lived,
travelling the mountains,
their dreams tucked in the sheath
of their machetes.
Nikèè Xirágáá màrìkuro’ò
dììn rí’na gájmàá ixí mí yaja,
ikhaa nè màxnáxii
ná gù’wá dxákuun idò mà’nè domingo,
idò mà’thùún nimà rí màbìjii àkwin,
rí mùni’ñáà adèè tsí nìkà
ná Sierra màtangáà xuajñùn,
khamí mùsngajmèè jàmbaà
rí màwàtun idò màkanuù gù’wó.
Kìra’tíìn ènè ijíín xìñíì,
numuu rí nìwanúù rí ma’tsiì jnáwùn tsú’kwè,
rí màjú’wun idò ma’khaà datìín.
Nè’nè jína mú’ún ná jàmbaà,
nì’nì tsákhun ná nìrigòò,
nìkrá’wii gòn’ ná awuún itsúu iduu,
khamí nistrákheè
ñawún xkrugoò gù’wá dxákuun ná xoxtoò.
Nigún’daa rí ajwàn’
rí nà’duù ná gù’wá dxákuun ñajùn,
nàndxáwán èjèn tsí nigoó judiìn xàbò,
ikànjgó nìgí’duù nì’duù: dín dan, dón don,
idò nì’niì iduu, nìxnámineè gá’kho
numuu rí phú nàgadíí i’dìún xàbò,
ndiyeè ngamí numuu nimà tsí nàjndáwuún,
tsí nangwá ni’ngòò muda’ rí gamaku.
Xkwa’nii nijúwá
mbòò Marutsíí nakí wajyúú mé’,
nìriguùn ná júbàá,
gájmàá xnu’daa rí giwàn’ jayuu ná xtoó chidìín.
Hubert Matiúwàa (trans Juana Adcock)