Silentium Amoris

Silentium Amoris

Oscar Wilde

As often-times the too resplendent sun 

Hurries the pallid and reluctant moon 

Back to her sombre cave, ere she hath won 

A single ballad from the nightingale, 

So doth thy Beauty make my lips to fail, 

And all my sweetest singing out of tune. 

And as at dawn across the level mead 

On wings impetuous some wind will come, 

And with its too harsh kisses break the reed 

Which was its only instrument of song, 

So my too stormy passions work me wrong, 

And for excess of Love my Love is dumb. 

But surely unto Thee mine eyes did show 

Why I am silent, and my lute unstrung; 

Else it were better we should part, and go, 

Thou to some lips of sweeter melody, 

And I to nurse the barren memory 

Of unkissed kisses, and songs never sung.

Pranvera e Shpirtit

Georg Trakl

Klithma në gjumë: nëpër rrugët e zeza sulet era,

kaltëria e pranverës bën me dorë nëpër degët që thyhen,

vesa e purpurt e natës, kurse yjet rreth e më rreth fiken.

Gjelbërohet lumi nëpër muzg, argjendësohen aletë e moçme

dhe kullat e qytetit. O, dehje e ëmbël

në barkën që rrëshqet dhe thirrmat e errëta të mullenjës

në kopshtet fëmijërore. Një vel i kuqrremtë kthjellohet.

Solemnisht gumëzhijnë ujërat. O, hije të lagëta livadhesh.

bisha që ecën; blerimi, degët e lulëzuara

e prekin ballin e kristaltë; një barkë e zbardhyerr që përkundet.

Qetë tingëllon dielli në renë e kuqrremtë përmbi breg.

E madhe është qetësia e pishnajës, hijerënda hijet buzë lumit.

Pastërti! Pastërti! Ku janë shtigjet e tmerrshme të vdekjes,

të heshtjes së gurtë të surme, shkrepat e natës

dhe hijet plot shqetësim? Vithisja e ndritshme e diellit.

Motër, atëherë të gjeta në lirishtën e vetmuar

të malit, e mesditë ishte dhe heshtje e madhe e bishave;

bardhësi nën lisin e egër, dhe i argjendtë kish lulëzuar shtogu.

Vdekë e paskaj dhe flaka që ia jepte këngës me gaz në zemër.

Më errët tash rrjedhin ujërat rreth lojërave të bukura të peshqve.

Një çast gjëme, shikimi i heshtur kah dielli;

shpirti është një i huaj në këtë botë. Si fantazmë errësohet

kaltëria mbi malin e prerë dhe gjatë

kumbon në fshat këmbora e errët; suita e qetësuar.

Qetas lulëzon mërsina mbi kapakët e syve të të vdekurit.

Qetë-qetë gurgullojnë përrojet nëpër pasditën që lëshohet

dhe më errët gjelbërohet shkurraja pranë bregut, gëzim në erën

e kuqrremtë;

kënga e ëmbël e vëllaut përfund bregut të mbrëmjes.

The light

George Seferis

As the year go by

the judges who condemn you grow in number;

as the years go by and you converse with fewer voices,

you see the sun with different eyes:

you know that those who stayed behind were deceiving you

the delirium of flesh, the lovely dance

that ends in nakedness.

It’s as though, turning at night into an empty highway,

you suddenly see the eyes of an animal shine,

eyes already gone; so you feel your own eyes:

you gaze at the sun, then you’re lost in darkness.

The doric chiton

that swayed like the mountains when your fingers touched it

is a marble figure in the light, but its head is in darkness.

And those who abandoned the stadium to take up arms

struck the obstinate marathon runner

and he saw the track sail in blood,

the world empty like the moon,

the gardens of victory wither:

you see them in the sun, behind the sun.

And the boys who dived from the bow-sprits

go like spindles twisting still,

naked bodies plunging into black light

with a coin between the teeth, swimming still,

while the sun with golden needles sews

sails and wet wood and colors of the sea;

even now they’re going down obliquely,

the white lekythoi,

toward the pebbles on the sea floor.

Light, angelic and black,

laughter of waves on the sea’s highways

tear-stained laughter,

the old suppliant sees you

as he moves to cross the invisible fields—*

light mirrored in his blood,

the blood that gave birth to Eteocles and Polynices.

Day, angelic and black;

the brackish taste of woman that poisons the prisoner

emerges from the wave a cool branch adorned with drops.

Sing little Antigone, sing, O sing…

I’m not speaking to you about things past, I’m speaking

about love;

decorate your hair with the sun’s thorns,

dark girl;

the heart of the Scorpion has set,*

the tyrant in man has fled,

and all the daughters of the sea, Nereids, Graeae,*

hurry toward the shimmering of the rising goddess:

whoever has never loved will love,*

in the light:

and you find yourself

in a large house with many windows open

running from room to room, not knowing from where to 

look out first,*

because the pine-trees will vanish, and the mirrored moun-

tains, and the chirping of birds

the sea will drain dry, shattered glass, from north and south

your eyes will empty of daylight

the way the cicadas suddenly, all together, fall silent.

Poros, “Galini,” 31 October 1946