Vislava Šimborska (Wislawa Szymborska)

OVEKOVEČIVANJE

Voleli se u lugu
pod suncima rose,
suvog lišća i zemlje
prepune im kose.

Srce lastavičje,
smiluj im se.

Nad jezerom klekli,
lišće iščešljali,
a ribe do obale
zvezdasto doplivale.

Srce lastavičje,
smiluj im se.

Odrazi drveća puše se
na talasiću sitnom.
Lastavice, učini, da se nikad
ne zaborave.

Lastavice, bodljo oblaka,
kotvo vazduha,
usavršeni Ikare,
vaskrsli fraku,

Lastavice, kaligrafijo,
skazaljko bez minuta,
rano-ptičija gotiko,
razrokosti na nebesima,

Lastavice, oštra tišino,
tugo vesela,
oreolu ljubavnika,
smiluj im se.

TORTURES

Nothing has changed.
The body is susceptible to pain,
it must eat and breathe air and sleep,
it has thin skin and blood right underneath,
an adequate stock of teeth and nails,
its bones are breakable, its joints are stretchable.
In tortures all this is taken into account.

Nothing has changed.
The body shudders as it shuddered
before the founding of Rome and after,
in the twentieth century before and after Christ.
Tortures are as they were, it's just the earth that's grown smaller,
and whatever happens seems right on the other side of the wall.

Nothing has changed. It's just that there are more people,
besides the old offenses new ones have appeared,
real, imaginary, temporary, and none,
but the howl with which the body responds to them,
was, is and ever will be a howl of innocence
according to the time-honored scale and tonality.

Nothing has changed. Maybe just the manners, ceremonies, dances.
Yet the movement of the hands in protecting the head is the same.
The body writhes, jerks and tries to pull away,
its legs give out, it falls, the knees fly up,
it turns blue, swells, salivates and bleeds.

Nothing has changed. Except for the course of boundaries,
the line of forests, coasts, deserts and glaciers.
Amid these landscapes traipses the soul,
disappears, comes back, draws nearer, moves away,
alien to itself, elusive, at times certain, at others uncertain of its own existence,
while the body is and is and is
and has no place of its own.

ROĐEN

Znači to je njegova majka.
Ova mala žena.
Sivooka vinovnica.

Čun u kome je on odavno
doplovio do obale.

To je on iz nje izašao
u svet,
u nevečnost.

Roditeljka čoveka
s kojim preskačem preko vatre.

Znači to je ona, ona jedina
koja ga nije izabrala
gotovog, potpunog.

Sama ga je uhvatila
u poznatu mu kožu,
privezala uz kosti
skrivene od mog pogleda.

Sama mu je pronašla
njegove sive oči
kojima me je pogledao.

Znači, to je ona, njegova alfa.
Zašto mi ju je pokazao?

Rođen.
Znači, ipak je i on rođen.
Rođen kao svi.
Kao ja koja ću umreti.

Sin prave žene.
Došljak iz dubine tela.
Putnik ka omegi.

Izložen
svojoj neprisutnosti
odasvud,
u svakom trenu.

A njegova glava je
glava u zid
zasad popustljiv.

A njegovi pokreti,
to su uzmicanja
od sveopšte presude.

Shvatila sam
da je prešao već polovinu puta.

Ali on mi to nije rekao,
ne.

Rekao mi je samo:
- Ovo je moja majka.

Mržnja

Pogledajte, kako je uvek vešta,
kako se dobro drži
mržnja u našem veku.
Kako lako preskače visoke prepone.
Kako je za nju lako – skočiti, doskočiti.

Nije kao druga osećanja.
Istovremeno je od njih i starija i mlađa.
Sama rađa uzroke,
koji je pobuđuju na život.
Ako zaspi, nikada večnim snom.
Nesanica joj ne oduzima već daje snagu.

Religija nije religija –
samo kleknuti na startu.
Otadžbina nije otadžbina –
samo se dati u trk.
Za početak nije rđava ni pravednost.
Posle već sama trči.
Mržnja. Mržnja.
Lice joj iskrivljuje grimasa
ljubavne ekstaze.

Ah, ona druga osećanja – slabašna i mlaka.
Otkad to bratstvo
može računati s ruljom?
Da li je ikada saosećanje
prvo stiglo na cilj?
Koliko spremnih sumnji povlači za sobom?
Povlači samo ona koja zna znanje.

Sposobna, razborita, veoma radna.
Treba li pominjati koliko je pesama sastavila?
Koliko je stranica istorije numerisala,
koliko je tepiha od ljudi prostrla,
na koliko trgova, stadiona?!
Ne zavaravajmo se:
uspeva da stvara lepo.
Čudesni su njeni požari u mrkloj noći.
Prekrasna su klupka eksplozija u ružičasto svitanje.
Teško je ruševinama negirati patos,
i neotesan humor
stubu koji sigurno štrči iznad njih.

Majstor je kontrasta
između treska i tišine,
između crvene krvi i belog snega,
a povrh svega nikada joj nije dosadan
motiv urednog izvršitelja
nad prljavom žrtvom.

U svakom času spremna za nove zadatke.
Ako treba da pričeka, čekaće.
Kažu da je slepa. Slepa?
Ima brze oči snajpera
i smelo gleda u budućnost
- sama samcita.

...

Look, how constantly capable
and how well maintained
in our century: hatred.
How lightly she regards high impediments.
How easily she leaps and overtakes.

She's not like other feelings.
She's both older and younger than they.
She herself gives birth to causes
which awaken her to life.
If she ever dozes, it's not an eternal sleep.
Insomnia does not sap her strength, but adds to it.

Religion or no religion,
as long as one kneels at the starting-block.
Fatherland or no fatherland,
as long as one tears off at the start.
She begins as fairness and equityt.
Then she propels herself.
Hatred. Hatred.
She veils her face with a mien
of romantic ecstasy.

Oh, the other feelings --
decrepit and sluggish.
Since when could that brotherhood
count on crowds?
Did ever empathy
urge on toward the goal?
How many clients did doubt abduct?
Only she abducts who knows her own.

Talented, intelligent, very industrious.
Do we need to say how many songs she has written.
How many pages of history she has numbered.
How many carpets of people she has spread out
over how many squares and stadiums!

Let's not lie to ourselves:
She's capable of creating beauty.
Wonderful is her aura on a black night.
Magnificent cloud masses at rosy dawn.
It's difficult to deny her pathos of ruins
and her coarse humor
mightily towering above them columns.

She's the mistress of contrast
between clatter and silence,
between red blood and white snow.
And above all she never tires of
the motif of the tidy hangman
above the defiled victim.

She's ready for new tasks at any moment.
If she must wait she'll wait.
She said she was blind. Blind?
She has the keen eyes of a sniper
and boldly looks into the future -
- she alone.

STARI PROFESOR

Upitala sam ga za stara dobra vremena,
kada smo bili veoma mladi,
naivni, ushićeni, glupi, nespremni.

Malo je ostalo od toga, s' izuzetkom mladosti
- odgovorio je.

Pitala sam ga da li i dalje pouzdano zna
šta je za čovečanstvo dobro, a šta loše.

To je najsmrtonosnija moguća iluzija
- odgovorio je.

Pitala sam ga za budućnost,
da li je još vidi jasno.

Pročitao sam previše istroijskih knjiga
- odgovorio je.

Pitala sam ga za fotografiju,
onu u ramu, na pisaćem stolu.

Bilo pa prošlo. Brat, roðak, snaha,
žena, ćerkica na ženinim kolenima,
mačka na ćeričinim rukama,
i rascvetala trešnja, a iznad te trešnje
leti neidentifikovana ptičica
- odgovorio je.

Pitala sam ga da li je ponekad srećan.

Radim
- odgovorio mi je.

Pitala sam ga za prijatelje, ima li ih još.

Nekoliko mojih bivših asistenata,
koji takoðe imaju bivše asistente,
gospoða Ljudmila koja vodi kuću,
neko veoma blizak, ali u inostranstvu,
dve gospoðe iz biblioteke, obe nasmejane,
a naspram mene mali Gžesjo i Marko Aurelije
- odgovorio je.

Pitala sam ga za zdravlje i kako se oseća.

Brane mi kafu, votku, cigarete,
nošenje teških uspomena i predmeta.
Moram da se pravim da to ne čujem
- odgovorio je.

Pitala sam ga za baštu i klupu u bašti.

Kada je prijatno veče, posmatram nebo.
Ne mogu da se načudim,
koliko je tamo tački gledišta
- odgovorio je.

ZELEZNICKA STANICA

Moj nedolazak u grad N.,
bio je tacan.

Bio si obavesten
neposlatim pismom.

Uspeo si da ne stignes
u predvidjeno vreme.

Voz je stigao na treci peron.
Sislo je mnogo ljudi.

U gomili prema izlazu
odlazilo je
odsustvo moje licnosti.

Nekoliko zena me je
brzo zamenilo
u toj zurbi.

Jednoj je pritrcao neko,
meni nepoznat,
ali ona ga je
odmah prepoznala.

Oboje su izmenili,
ne nas poljubac.
Za to vreme nestao je
moj kofer.

Zeleznicka stanica
u gradu N.,
dobro je polozila ispit
iz objektivnog postojanja.

Celina je stajala
na svom mestu,
a detalji su se kretali
po obelezenim kolosecima.

Dogodio se cak
i dogovoreni susret.

Susret van dometa
nase prisutnosti.

U izgubljenom raju
verovatnoce.

Negde drugde.

Kako ove male reci zvone.

...

My nonarrival in the city of N.
took place on the dot.

You'd been alerted
in my unmailed letter.

You were able not to be there
at the agreed-upon time.

The train pulled up at Platform 3.
A lot of people got out.

My absence joined the throng
as it made its way toward the exit.

Several women rushed
to take my place
in all that rush.

Somebody ran up to one of them.
I didn't know him,
but she recognized him
immediately.

While they kissed
with not our lips,
a suitcase disappeared,
not mine.

The railroad station in the city of N.
passed its exam
in objective existence
with flying colors.

The whole remained in place.
Particulars scurried
along the designated tracks.

Even a rendezvous
took place as planned.

Beyond the reach
of our presence.

In the paradise lost
of probability.

Somewhere else.

How these little words ring.