Can those
who have seen
the bones
that go
a certain
shade of grey
that resembles
the plumages
of pigeons,
bones
that are thrown away
like crops
that rot in sun
when autumn comes —
can those
who have seen
the bones
still love,
and not succumb to them?

yānimāni apatthāni
alāpūneva sārade
kāpotakāni aṭṭhīni tāni
disvāna kā rati

Many writers consider their art not as something to be mastered — and as something that must be mastered — but as a game of chance, on which they can test their luck. They will happily hand themselves over to Fortune, basing their own worth on nothing more than her valuation (although they are bound to inflate it a little, of course).

There are two traps, two roads to destruction: the first consists in adapting too easily to the tastes of the public, the second in holding too faithfully to one's own idiosyncratic system.

Paul Valéry (1871–1945)
Tel Quel

I follow you, Fate. And, hell, if I chose to rebel,
I'd follow you still — under duress and bated breath.

Schicksal, ich folge dir! Und wollt’ ich nicht,
ich müsst’ es doch und unter Seufzen tun!

Like predatory wolves
that prowl through pitch-black mists,
instinctive and impelled
by noxious stings of hunger,
while the cubs that were left
behind are waiting
with dessicated throats,
we march to certain
death. We shall sprint
through their volleying spears,
storming their city
while the night stays black.

Its darkness keeps us safe from attack.

                                        … inde, lupi ceu
raptores atra in nebula, quos improba ventris
exegit caecos rabies, catulique relicti
faucibus exspectant siccis, per tela, per hostis
vadimus haud dubiam in mortem, mediaeque tenemus
urbis iter; nox atra cava circumvolat umbra.

Better by far to sleep on shaded grass
than on a gilded bed. Your purple sheets
don't overawe me. I'm at ease, at last.

Perhaps a cheerful heart can overthrow
all darker thoughts and every sordid pain.
I feel completely calm and unalone.

As sun begins to dawn, the cows repeat
their gentle sounds, herds harmonising peacefully.

Perchè dolce più assai era fra l’erba 
Sotto l’ombre dormir queto e sicuro, 
Che ne’ dorati letti, e di superba 
Porpora ornati: e forse più ogn' oscuro 
Pensier discaccia, ed ogni doglia acerba, 
Sentir col cor tranquillo, allegro, e puro 
Nell’ apparir del Sol mugghiar gli armenti, 
Che l’armonia de’ più soavi accenti.

From never-ending yearnings rise
our ending deeds that tremble like
the falling fruit, borne before its time
of fruitless weeping. Paradise
is felt through one's organic might —
a truth shown by those flitting cries,
but one well hidden otherwise.

Aus unendlichen Sehnsüchten steigen
endliche Taten wie schwache Fontänen,
die sich zeitig und zitternd neigen.
Aber, die sich uns sonst verschweigen,
unsere fröhlichen Kräfte — zeigen
sich in diesen tanzenden Tränen.

Alert to the sounds of my footsteps, and nothing. Dark
and abandoned auroral streets. Hand on the metalwork.

The rustling had stopped me, threatened an ignorance.
Scanned for its source, which stayed unseen. I glanced —

Balled at my feet — the creature calmly disturbed.
It lay on the pavement like a kitten barbed.