This is my house. There is the sun and the garden with beehives.You pass on the road, looking through the gates
and waiting for me to talk. Where should I start?
Believe me, believe me,
you can talk as much as you want about anything:
about faith and the serpent of goodness,
about the archangels who plough
the gardens of man,
about the sky toward which we grow,
about hatred and fall, sadness and crucifixion
and above all, about the great passing.
But words are only the tears of those who wanted
so badly to cry and couldn't.
Bitter are all the words
that is why -- let me
walk mute among you,
come out to meet you with my eyes closed.
(translated from Romanian by Loredana Tiron-Pandit)
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6 comments:
Beautiful!
The last three lines are especially moving after the subtle build up. Our houses are full of symbolism, of conversatiuons of all things unguarded - this poem captures that.
Conversations! I can spell, honest!
You have such an amazing talent translating. Your words hold me spellbound. More so than the original.
~* I'm happy you like it, Blogey!
~* You are right, Rachel. I didn't actually even consider that aspect of how much a house speaks, but yeah, it's there. And, you know, OK, I'll try to believe that you can spell, but honestly ... not convinced. :)
~* Thank you, Angie. I so appreciate it from you, considering that you are one of the few who can read the original. Thank you.
Lucian! What a poet ....i'm captivated by your translations like a bee to a pot of honey!
He undoes the layers of words to touch silence , and undoes layers of silence to discover the footfalls of our Soul, and to walk upto there the mind must stay behind!
Very beautiful sharing, Lori!
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