Friday, January 09, 2009

the flash of a hand

brushtailed grass at nearly sunset, december 28/08, in the river valley.

SPOTKANIE

Jechaliśmy przed świtem po zamarzłych polach,
Czerwone skrzydło wstawało, jeszcze noc.





I zając przebiegł nagle tuż przed nami,
A jeden z nas pokazał go ręką.





To było dawno. Dzisiaj już nie żyją
Ni zając, ani ten co go wskazywał.





Miłości moja, gdzież są, dokąd idą
Błysk ręki, linia biegu, szelest grud --
Nie z żalu pytam, ale z zamyślenia.





* * *





And in English:



Czeslaw Milosz



ENCOUNTER



We were riding through frozen fields in a wagon at dawn.
A red wing rose in the darkness.

And suddenly a hare ran across the road.
One of us pointed to it with his hand.

That was long ago. Today neither of them is alive,
Not the hare, nor the man who made the gesture.

O my love, where are they, where are they going
The flash of a hand, streak of movement, rustle of pebbles.
I ask not out of sorrow, but in wonder.


* * *

Sunrise as a red wing rising in the darkness = oh my. This whole poem, I want to recite it over & over. The last lines are so tender, especially in Polish, soft throat rustles in a language I half-understand. Winter ache.

1 comment:

Arinn said...

what a beautiful image.