The Necklace (XI)
Blessed morning, you cascade
roaring lightfalls in this room.
How can pain make me afraid,
dead already, in my tomb?
Well, perhaps you can ignite
buried sparks from ash and dust
since the lilac and the light
still swell longing in your breast.
When I lift your veil, you show
lines of quiet, forms of grace
in shelves of books, row on row –
then the whole room’s careworn face.
Yet, there’s something still I miss
from this crib without a cross,
a smile on darling lips, the kiss
of flowers in a waterglass.
Blessed morning, while you dress
this room in your translucent robe,
I have no fear of death’s caress.
Only give love back to this Job.
Kolajna XI
Blaženo jutro koje padaš
u svijetlom slapu u tu sobu,
već nema rane da mi zadaš,
počivam mrtav u svom grobu.
Možda ćeš ipak da potpiriš
pepelom iskru zapretanu –
jer evo, trome grudi širiš
čeznućem suncem, jorgovanu.
Dijeliš mi neke tihe slasti
kad o tvom zaru vidim knjige
na polici — i cijeli tmasti
vidik te sobe pune brige.
Za mene ipak nešto fali
u ovoj uzi bez raspeća,
na dragoj usni osmjeh mali,
u čaši vode kita cvijeća.
Blaženo jutro koje padaš
sa snopom svjetla u tu sobu,
već nema smrti da mi zadaš,
no vrati ljubav ovom Jobu.
The Necklace (XX)
Listen how in this perfumed dark
our nerves’ thin wires are twanged to flame
as if struck by a nettle’s spark.
For wounding us, they’ll take the blame.
In this deep hush, with glory filled,
our epic dawn sets, lost from view,
yet vision from this strife is spilled
through the green ranks of the avenue.
The beauty of our grieving frays,
its splendid silk and velvet folds
like dewy rainbows, fade in haze,
fringed like the moon in blues and golds.
Listen how in this perfumed dark
our nerves’ thin wires are twanged to flame
as if struck by a nettle’s spark.
For wounding us, they’ll take the blame.
Kolajna XX
U ovom mraku mirisavu
slušajmo kako ječe živci;
i sjećaju na ljutu travu,
a našem grču jesu krivci.
U ovom muku punom boga
zalazi rujna epopeja;
nutrašnja kavga i nesloga
otkriva zelen niz aleja.
Umire naša lijepa tuga,
tuga od svile i baršuna;
varava kao rosna duga,
zlatna i plava kao Luna.
U ovom mraku mirisavu
slušajmo kako ječe živci;
i sjećaju na ljutu travu,
a našem grču jesu krivci.
The Necklace (XXI)
Tonight, my forehead gleams
and sweat drips in each eye;
my thoughts blaze through dreams,
tonight, of beauty I shall die.
The soul’s core is pure passion, deep
in the pit of night, a blazing cone.
Hush, weep in silence. Let us weep
and let us die. We’ll die alone.
Kolajna XXI
Noćas se moje čelo žari,
noćas se moje vjeđe pote;
i moje misli san ozari,
umrijet ću noćas od ljepote.
Duša je strasna u dubini,
Ona je zublja u dnu noći;
Plačimo, plačimo u tišini,
Umrimo, umrimo u samoći.
The Necklace (XXXII)
The Gulf! Whole oceans scaled over my head,
and gold fish fashioned out of crystallites,
I ask where Madam Moonlight’s lain abed,
and blue horizons haze blue mountain heights.
The dawn is spiked with delicate clear dread,
thought’s needles – piercing, lucid – snap and freeze.
No scales or spirals raise me, spirited,
nor mirrorings of rocked realities.
The heart’s a world unfathomed, fertile, deep,
and man, beneath his lead sky, breaks and sinks,
while life, a seagull, soars above his head.
Aye, well-fed easy woman, stuffed on bread,
thought’s rhythms broke our last connecting links,
but oh, how heart and pulse beat, beat and leap.
Kolajna XXXII
Ponore! More povrh moje glave
i zlatne ribe danom od kristala,
ja pitam gdje je Mjesečina pala
I gdje se gorski horizonti plave.
Zora je puna nježne jasne strave,
a miso je – bistra, ledna – stala;
ne zanima me skala, ni spirala,
ni česti odraz uzdrmane jave.
Srce je svijeta plodno i duboko
a čovjek slomljen pod težinom neba
a život krila visoko – visoko.
Nebrigo žene, presitosti hljeba,
od ritma misli zadnja spona puca
A srce kuca, bilo kuca, otkucava.
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