This Only
A valley and above it forests in autumn colors.
A voyager arrives, a map leads him there.
Or perhaps memory. Once long ago in the sun,
When snow first fell, riding this way
He felt joy, strong, without reason,
Joy of the eyes. Everything was the rhythm
Of shifting trees, of a bird in flight,
Of a train on the viaduct, a feast in motion.
He returns years later, has no demands.
He wants only one, most precious thing:
To see, purely and simply, without name,
Without expectations, fears, or hopes,
At the edge where there is no I or not-I.
~ Czesław Miłosz ~
(The Collected Poems, 1931-1987, trans. by Robert Hass)
É Seo Amháin
Gleann agus os a chionn foraoisí faoi dhathanna an fhómhair.
Tagann taistealaí, mapa a thugann ann é.
Nó cuimhne éigin seans. Tráth dá raibh faoin ngrian
Nuair a thit an chéad sneachta, is é ag marcaíocht sa treo seo
Bhraith sé ríméad, neart, gan chúis,
Ríméad na súl. Rithim na gcrann luaineach
Ab ea gach aon ní, éan ar eite,
Traein ar an tarbhealach, féasta gluaiseachta.
Filleann sé ar an áit tamall maith ina dhiaidh sin
Gan d’éileamh aige ach aon ní fíorluachmhar amháin:
Radharc simplí a fháil, gan ainm,
Gan tnúth, gan eagla ná dóchas,
Ar an imeall gan mise ná neamh-mhise ann.
This Anely
A glen an abuin it a wuid in hairst's colours.
A traiveler wins in, a map airts'm thair.
Or aiblins a myndin. Yince langsyne i the sin,
Whan snaw furst fell, ridin this wey
He felt joy, strang, wi nae rhyme nor raison.
Joy o the een. Awthing wis the lilt
O sweyin treen, o a burd in flicht,
O a train on the brig, a bellyrive o muivement.
He retours years efter, seekin naethin.
He langs fir yin maist precious theeng:
Tae sei, pure'n semple, wi'oot nem,
Wi'oot greenin, dreid, nor howps,
It the lip whaur thair's nae I an nae no-I