Traduceri de Poezii
Scrisoarea a II-a (Mihai Eminescu) - Second Epistle
My quill, you ask, why doth it rest in ink these days, much more?
Why doth rhythm not perturb me, from my daily boring chore?
Why do sleep in crowded pages yellow from the times that passed
High-pitched iambs, trohees and dactyls with their leaps like horses fast?
If you knew of all life's matters, which I struggle daily with
You would see that I'd have reason for to break my pen forthwith.
For I ask, why start we now, in our shining armour true
Longtime language old and wise to remould in shapes anew?
Why take hidden, secret feelings, that in harps lay sleeping still
And display them in light plays, just like items that shelves fill?
When with thirst you search for words that would suit thy thoughts so well
Why write now to world's desires, why tell something without tell?
You will answer though and say that it's good to hear one's name
That through writing one acquires the world's glories and one's fame
That I can attract atention from the high men of this land
That to dedicate my verses to the ladies would be grand.
That although I am disgusted I should let reason prevail
Dear fellow oh so many have already carved that trail
In this age we have a strange lot that we call poetic bards
Who through schemeing and through poems always try to play their cards.
For by dedicating verses they know just how to make waves
Through those mighty and their ladies in salons and in cafes.
Since the paths of life are narrow and so easily one's strayed
Petticoats they find that give them in return their needed aid
For by dedicating booklets to the ladies - they hope steer
The politically advancing, husbands into launching their career.
Why not write for fame and glory? Why aren't These what I beseech?
I keep wondering: 'Tis glory in the wilderness to preach?
In our days when to desires mortals all are humble slaves
Glory's just that treacherous lie that perhaps a thousand knaves
To their idol dedicate, mere midgets are called grand
They who are but foamy bubbles of these worthless times at hand.
Should my lyre sing of love? Love is but a chain, you see,
That is evenly spread out 'tween two lovers, even three
Should I strive to sweetly sing that I'm one who has agreed
To be 'nother in the choir Menelaus has to lead?
Women also, like the world, in these days are quite a school
Where you're taught of pain, belittled, taught to glitter and to fool.
In the schools of higher learning, fairy goddess Venus runs
Students come in growing numbers and from young to younger ones
You can see them welcome children, at the school where they are classed
Till the school turns into ruin, nothing's left when time has passed..
Think you still of yonder years when in school we dreamt sublime
Listening to our ancient teachers mending out the cloak of time?
They would gather fleeting moments that in tomes would rest away
And in patches of things passed they sought wisdom for today.
With their gentle mumbling they were mines of horum-harum
Earning with each sleepy blink nervum rerum gerendarum
Pulleys in our minds they'd move with great wonder and thus bring
Into thought a swinging planet or a great Egyptian king.
I can still see the stargazer and the emptiness at rest
How he drew the worlds from chaos as out of a treasure chest
And how the eternal darkness laid he out and how he said
That like beads upon a string, ages through the times are thread
Our poor heads would then start spinning from all his relentless proving
Till we felt like Galileo that the whole thing must be moving.
Dazed by languages of old, by the planets, by school grind
Into old moth-eaten kings, teachers turned inside our mind.
And while gazing at the ceiling, at the cobwebs and the skies
We would listen to King Ramses and we'd dream of big blue eyes
And sweet poems we would scribble on the corner of the page
To a maiden wild and rosy, some Clotilda from that age.
In the whirl that time creates, floating there in front of me
I'd see a sun, I'd see a king, a farmyard animal I'd see,
Quiet moments charm received from the scritch-scratch of the pen
I'd see waving fields of green, rippling fields of flax back then
Heavy heads leaned against benches everything drifted ahead
The bell rang and then we knew that by now Ramses was dead
Worlds imagined were alive in those younger days we knew
While on the contrary the real seemed to be the one untrue
It's but today that we can see how gaunt and rocky is the road
That lends itself appropriate and to an honest heart's bestowed
And in this ordinary world by dreamming dreams one pays the cost
For if you have any illusions then you're a fool and you are lost.
These are the reasons why today you will ask of me no more
Why doth rhythm not perturb me, from my daily boring chore,
Why do sleep in crowded pages yellow from the times that passed
High-pitched iambs, trohees and dactyls with their leaps like horses fast...
If I do write verse these days in my heart I have the fear
That from people of today praises I'd begin to hear
If with a smile I wear their hatred and if it's ease that I give out
With immesurable sorrow their praise would fill my soul, no doubt
Bucuria lucrurilor simple
Sa te bucuri ca nu a plouat
Si a fost o zi mai luminoasa,
Cocosul in ograda a cantat
Amintind intoarcerea acasa.
Sa te bucuri ca ai cules un mar
Rumenit, cu miezul plin de soare,
Si copilul mic, abia mergand,
Ti-a intins, cu mana lui, o floare.
Sa te bucuri ca a inflorit ciresul
Langa o tufa mov de liliac,
Ca in lanul aurit de soare
Stau aprinse lampile de mac
Ca padurea-n toamna a ruginit
Poleind cararile cu luna,
Cineva ti-a spus, abia soptit,
Seara la culcare, noapte buna!
Fericirea nu e peste mari,
Nici de sus sa n-o astepti mereu,
Ea e aici, in lucrurile simple
Care zilnic sunt in jurul tau.
Autor: Titina Nica Tene
The joy of simple things
Be glad today the rains fall not,
Be glad a brighter day you find;
Outside the rooster's crow you caught,
And homebound thoughts race through your mind.
Be glad of apples picked today,
All red, with sunshine in their core,
Be glad a toddling babe, in play,
Gave you a flower picked before.
Be glad the cherry tree's in flower,
And purple lilacs are in sight,
That in the wheat field's golden hour
The poppy lamps are all alight.
That rusty forests in the fall,
Have trails shine under the moonlight.
That with a whisper, oh! so small,
At bedtime someone says goodnight.
Our joys do not come from afar,
And from up high they might be few;
Right here in simple things they are,
And daily they surround you.