和珍妮交谈

      
我们不别谈哲学,抛开它,珍妮。
语词如此众多,篇幅如此浩繁,谁能够忍受。
我告诉你那远去的自我的真相。
我已经不再为我不完整的生活担忧。
它不比通常的人间悲剧更好,也不更坏。

三十年了,我们在不断争论
就像现在,这岛屿上,热带的天空下。
刚从大雨中逃离,马上又回到阳光明媚中
翠绿的树叶耀眼,而我变得无话可说。

我们淹没在一排海浪的泡沫中
我们游得很远,直到天边,那是一片凌乱的香蕉树丛
和长着小风车般的叶子的棕榈树。
而我被指责:我并不胜任我所有的作品,
我本该像卡尔*雅斯贝斯那样,
却并未向自己要求更多,
我对这个时代的观念的嘲讽在变得缓和。

我看着白色的云层,随波逐流。

你说的对,珍妮,我不知道怎样去关心我灵魂的拯救。
其中一些受到了召唤,余下的尽其所能各司其职。
我接受它,那些降临到我身上的是正确的。
我不会有意否认曾有过智慧的时代。
不可言喻的是,我选择在如今,
在这个世界的事物之中安置我的家,它们存在并因此而令我们快乐:
海滩上赤裸的女人,她们胸前古铜色的球果,
木槿,菟丝花,一朵红百合,
被我的眼睛,嘴唇,舌头贪婪地享用,这番石榴汁,西塞尔的李子汁
加冰块和果汁的朗姆酒,下雨的森林中的
紫藤花,那里树木挺立在它们高耸的根部。

死亡,你说,我的和你的,越来越近了,
我们为此痛苦而这贫瘠的土地还不够。
那些菜园中黑紫色的泥土
仍会在这里,无论是否有我们注视。
海,就像今天,仍会从它的深度中得到呼吸。
我会消失在无边无际中,越来越小,也越来越自由。

写于瓜德罗普岛

Conversation with Jeanne

Czeslaw Milosz

Let us not talk philosophy, drop it, Jeanne.
So many words, so much paper, who can stand it.
I told you the truth about my distancing myself.
I've stopped worrying about my misshapen life.
It was no better and no worse than the usual human tragedies.

For over thirty years we have been waging our dispute
As we do now, on the island under the skies of the tropics.
We flee a downpour, in an instant the bright sun again,
And I grow dumb, dazzled by the emerald essence of the leaves.

We submerge in foam at the line of the surf,
We swim far, to where the horizon is a tangle of banana bush,
With little windmills of palms.
And I am under accusation: That I am not up to my oeuvre,
That I do not demand enough from myself,
As I could have learned from Karl Jaspers,
That my scorn for the opinions of this age grows slack.

I roll on a wave and look at white clouds.

You are right, Jeanne, I don't know how to care about the salvation of my soul.
Some are called, others manage as well as they can.
I accept it, what has befallen me is just.
I don't pretend to the dignity of a wise old age.
Untranslatable into words, I chose my home in what is now,
In things of this world, which exist and, for that reason, delight us:
Nakedness of women on the beach, coppery cones of their breasts,
Hibiscus, alamanda, a red lily, devouring
With my eyes, lips, tongue, the guava juice, the juice of la prune de Cythère,
Rum with ice and syrup, lianas-orchids
In a rain forest, where trees stand on the stilts of their roots.

Death, you say, mine and yours, closer and closer,
We suffered and this poor earth was not enough.
The purple-black earth of vegetable gardens
Will be here, either looked at or not.
The sea, as today, will breathe from its depths.
Growing small, I disappear in the immense, more and more free.

Guadeloupe