Мария Визи - A moon gate in my wall: собрание стихотворений

I shall not die. Nor can it be, I know,
that earth without me in the gladsome space
would draw its thread of fire and ever go
along its senseless and its joyful race.

It cannot be that after I am gone
the earth would blossom, wilt, and roll ahead
among the worlds, that trees would rustle on,
that snow would circle, after I was dead!

It cannot happen. I assure you. I
will stubbornly continue on my course,
and when the awful hour has come to die
will push the coffin's lid with all my force,

and I will shout: I do not want it so!
I need to feel this gladness that is blind!
Shoulder to shoulder with my sweet to go!
To give the sun whatever name I find!

No in a stuffy box you cannot lay
one who has spurned all
I want to live, and I shall live, I say
and…

Let life grow dimmer, harder every day,
let work become more vain, more useless, let
men we can speak to seldom come our way,
I thank You for the right of living yet.

And let the years…

Indeed it is but nothing that one pays:
a tear and sigh — for fields, for songs afar,
for cherished voices, for a brother's gaze,
and for the air of this rejoicing star.

Once a golden cloudlet spent the night
on a giant cliff's great rugged breast;
than at daybreak speeded on its quest,
gaily playing in the azure light.

But a spot of moisture lingered, traced
in a wrinkle on the ancient stone;
lost in thought, the giant stands alone,
weeping softly in his barren waste.

I am more restless than another still, —
a word that's said with casual caress,
a furtive glance — still send through me a thrill,
alike a tender glance or vivid dress.

And even yet to me it is a pleasure
to… a fancy, strange and far away
to suffer from a rime, at times to measure
emotion, caught by chance upon the way

But every day the soul does stricter get,
obeys the ray that moves not, and I feel
that I will teach that same emotion yet,
though that same rime to be of sadless zeal

And soon, I know, — thanks to the God who takes
us onward with a wisdom-guided palm, —
we will exchange anxiety that aches
for heavenly and light-abounding calm.

More verse? What for? Already from their curse
the soul is sad, as unsuccessful verse.
Already, when I barely close my eyes —
comparisons to you before me rise.

You are w o ndrous than a rose, and, too,
more tender than my tenderness for you,
or you are sad, a drooping willow tree,
or toiling, as a love-abounding bee,

or else you dream — and in that mood you stay
to me more puzzling than a gloomy day.
Our life is plain, less visible by far:
and you are worse — yet better loved you are.

Out-of-doors — the murky winter light,
frosty moon, and stillness of the night.
Hut your window has been covered long
with a screen, reliable and strong.

Out-of-doors, above the house and tower
fearful is the moon this chosen hour.
Yet you sleep, the moon you do not heed:
you are dreaming other dreams indeed.

Out-of doors, beneath the moonlight glow,
stubborn guard, I wander to and fro.
But it is not joys of love that fill
your illusions in the midnight still.

From tired lid, a tear crawls down my cheek.
Coins jangle on the church collection tray.
No matter what we pray for, what we seek,
it's always for a miracle we pray.

That two times two make five instead of four,
and straw would turn into a rose in bloom,
that I be home, in my own house, once more,
though there is no such thing as house or home.

That from the churchyard mound where grasses sway
you suddenly step out, alive and gay.

Like some strange blessing that descends upon us,
our kiss is full of fire and passion swift.
And yet I know: a future day is coming
when I will have to choose your wedding gift.

So let it be: some shaken thrones will tumble,
and mighty cities fall, and forest burn.
Laws that are ironclad were once established, —
once and for all they will remain stern.

I’ve long outgrown all manner of partitions,
of language, and of blood, and even race,
and all those other age-old walls and fences
with which a man surrounds his private place.

Even today, I hate that coming hour
when, speaking softly, you will say, «My dear!
A temporary harbor may be lovely,
but now it's time the ship should homeward steer.

My destiny is clear, — you will explain, —
I'm but a door where generations stand
yet to be born, of small and slant-eyed people
with yellow skin — as ever in my land».

And you will leave forever, disappearing
behind blank walls which I deny in vain,
— in cold betrayal, though without betraying —
into the cruel truth of your domain.

No races, castes, or creeds… Wide as the sea,
like that same sea, I will remain alone,
wearily mirror someone else's dawns,
and, longing for the East, complain and groan.

Alone and free…But truly, what of that:
I'm quite prepared, forsaking all desires,
an unknown passerby, to be the last
to warm my hands at other people's fires.

The Christ Child had a garden once,
and many grew the roses there.
He gave them water twice a day,
so he could have a wreath to wear.

And when the roses came to bloom,
he called the children in, to share,
bach took a flower for himself,
and soon they left the garden bare.

«How will you make yourself a wreath?
There's not a rose on any bed!»
«You have forgotten that the thorns
are left for me», the Christ Child said.

And so they took the thorns and laid
a prickly wreath upon Him now,
and scarlet were the drops of blood,
instead of roses, on His brow.

Close tighter every door and close your eyes,
forget that you are living, think not then,
and let your blindness guard you from the skies
and deafness — from the noise of earthly men.

Know not of the beginning and the end —
and a new world before you will arise!
So in his coffin does a dead man send
a smile to visions hidden from our eyes.

Days are passing after the nights
putting out — what care they? — the lights.
Dream on dream float onward and on,
all alike and black every one.
Ever lower the sky does grow.
God, it's death approaching, I know.
God, I know it's you who led
me on poverty's path ahead,
turned off near me all the lights
of the dreams the days and the nights,
so that I, in the dark around,
on the empty, ice-covered ground,
being sentenced, like all, to die,
found nothing of which to cry.

We dream our dreams, but do not know that they
are God’s own warnings, and believe them not.
A last night’s dream, like smoke, will blow away,
today will come — and it will be forgot.

So with this earthly life — when death is nigh,
and on the death-bed frozen falls our hand,
closing the lid of our wondering eye,
we never will recall or understand!

I know not how or why, at whose behest,
by what strange powers of the earth or sky,
you share with me my crust of bread, and lie
close to the heart that heats within my breast.

In days that are inspired, as on the day
of death — you are inseparably near.
All else will pass, all else will disappear…
I he constant shining of your eyes will stay.