Rose

Rose

Was I strewing red poppies
Over a dark, barren field?
I can remember dreaming
But I’ve forgotten the dream.

Were these your lips I then kissed?
Were these my hands you did hold?
In my garden – only mist
At my gates – a crescent gold.

Every day my yearning grows;
I spend every night afloat.
When do you blossom, my rose?
‘I never blossom, my lord’.

‘I never blossom, my lord’
Speak, is it your voice, my rose?
I try to catch every word...
Every day my yearning grows.

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For me, this is the most beautiful poem ever. It sounds so great in Polish, so I had a really hard time trying to translate it :( Thinking at the same time about rhymes, meter, content and emotional message was really difficult. To be honest, I don't like my translation :p It just doesn't have the charm of Leśmian's poetry. And it can't. When I started, I decided I got to stick to what is most important, and that is, for me, the imagery of this poem. It's dark and red, it's somewhere between a night dream and vision, it's full of loneliness and emptiness. And if, reading both versions, you see the same images in your mind, I'm really satisfied.

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Bolesław Leśmian - Róża

Czym purpurowe maki
Na ciemną rzucał drogę?
Sen miałem, ale - jaki? -
Przypomnieć już nie mogę.

Twojeż to były usta?
Mojeż to były dłonie?
Głąb sadu mego - pusta,
We wrotach - księżyc płonie.

Dni się za dniami dłużą,
Noce - w jeziorach witam...
Kiedy ty kwitniesz, różo?
" Ja nigdy nie zakwitam... "

" Ja nigdy nie zakwitam... "
Twójże to głos, o różo?
Słowo po słowie chwytam,
Dni się za dniami dłużą...