Publicado por: bulimundo | Novembro 19, 2018

Lost Desire..in translation…

 

Translation

Though there’s no such thing as a “self,” I missed it— 
the fiction of it and how I felt believing in it mildly 
like a book an old love sent with an inscription 
in his hand, whatever it meant, 
After such knowledge, what forgiveness . . . 
—the script of it like the way my self felt 
learning German words by chance—Mitgefühl, 
Unheimlichkeit—and the trailing off that happened 
because I knew only the feelings, abstract 
and international, like ghosts or connotations 
lacking a grammar, a place to go: 
this was the way my self felt when it started 
falling apart: each piece of it clipped 
from a garden vaguely remembered 
by somebody unrecognizable— 
such a strange bouquet that somebody sent 
to nobody else, a syntax of blossoms.

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Lost Desire

TRANSLATED BY WILLIAM M. HARDINGE
Love brought by night a vision to my bed, 
One that still wore the vesture of a child 
But eighteen years of age – who sweetly smiled 
Till of the lovely form false hopes were bred 
And keen embraces wild. 
Ah! for the lost desire that haunts me yet, 
Till mine eyes fail in sleep that finds no more 
That fleeting ghost! Oh, lovelorn heart, give o’er – 
Cease thy vain dreams of beauty’s warmth – forget 
The face thou longest for! 

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