A new Lucien Blaga translation
by Steven Fowler
[ poetry - november 10 ]
Lot
I have seen witnessed sin breeding
profaning light and wind alike,
mistaking custom, and playing with fire in the city.
The naked have I seen in rusted coppergreen lakes
kissing silver swans.
I have seen, afeared before the gate,
girls dancing free of their whiteness
for long nailed counts
and I have seen priests take beggars
to drink the wine that washes the dead.
I have seen women setting their seed on fire
their mission cast between eternity like a curse,
their breasts; ripe fruit with no milk, empty,
their breath killing bees and herbs.
I have seen transparent guests wash upon the shore of blood:
children who will be delivered but are not desired
(if you stop your ears
you can hear through spheres their bitter thirst,
their dumb mutter at the world's windows,
and their song of reprieve
when they find entrance
in trees, dogs and birds).
I have seen witnessed sin breeding
profaning light and wind alike,
Alas, sons of the city, you think
no one has seen the sun
and clear light is nothing but a tale.
Your questions stir the pits,
and you hurt with stones the voiceless eyes of the well,
but you cannot guess from their silence
the unforeseen ending.
Alas, sons of the city, in any deed
you refuse the earth its divine descent.
You haven't yet feasted with angels,
you haven't yet cleaned their dirty wings,
but reproached them instead - plucking their feathers
and revelling, you dance
around the golden streets of the cursed calf.
It'll not be seven days, it'll not be seven days.
Woe is me that I wait.
My flock of sheep and my glowing coals
will sink into the water.
I can hear dogs barking from the seabed below.
Alas, my God, for I have to hold my tongue
when naked.
When looking back to see me
my woman shall become a pillar of salt
