We always only dream about happiness, however,
It’s everywhere. And perhaps it is
These trees behind the barn wrapped into autumn weather,
And through my window a softly flowing breeze.
In the endless sky there rises white and wispy
Edge of a shining cloud. Quite for long
I’ve followed it. We see and know so little,
But to the knowledgeable happiness belongs.
My window’s open. With a squeaky cheer
A bird perched on the sill. And for a bit
I take away my tired eyes from the read.
The day’s declining now. The sky has cleared.
The thresher’s buzz is coming from the barn…
I see, I hear, happy. All is mine.
О счастье мы всегда лишь вспоминаем.
А счастье всюду. Может быть, оно
Вот этот сад осенний за сараем
И чистый воздух, льющийся в окно.
В бездонном небе легким белым краем
Встает, сияет облако. Давно
Слежу за ним... Мы мало видим, знаем,
А счастье только знающим дано.
Окно открыто. Пискнула и села
На подоконник птичка. И от книг
Усталый взгляд я отвожу на миг.
День вечереет, небо опустело.
Гул молотилки слышен на гумне...
Я вижу, слышу, счастлив. Все во мне.
«“Stonemason, stonemason, in your white apron, / What are you building? For whom?” / “Oh, don’t disturb us, for we’re busy working, / Building a prison — a tomb.” “Stonemason, stonemason, with your true trowel, / Who will be weeping inside?” / “Neither you nor your brot...»
«When they say to me: “Alexandria” — / I see the white walls of a house, / A smallish garden with beds of stocks, / The pale sun of an autumn sunset, / And I hear the sounds of distant flutes. When they say to me: “Alexandria” — / I see the stars above a retiring city, / Drun...»
«What rain! / Our sail is drenched / and one cannot see that it was striped, / The rouge runs down your cheeks, / and you look like a dye worker from Tyre. / Nervously we crossed the threshold / of the charcoal burner’s low mud hut; / The man with the scar on his forehead / pushed a...»
«If they say: “you must suffer both torture and burning” — / I shall joyously sing on the stake that will finish my life — / Obedient. If I had to abandon my singing forever, / I would silently offer my tongue and my hands to the knife — / ...»