At a Crossroads

At a Crossroads

How are you doing?
That’s great.
I can see your bright sight, your regular walk,
Like a march.

But I am, you know, at a crossroads
My right is your left
You see: a chair, a table, a bench,
And me, I see a torn down tree.

'Cause I am, you know, at a crossroads.
From my place, I can see the sky askew.
You divide every winter, every dawn in half...
You love your wife.

It’s time to go, the cigarette’s going out.
Soon, you know, there will be morning.
The wife’s waiting, surely she won’t sleep at all
And the labourers will rise.

And I am, you know, at a crossroads
Here blink the lights of various opportunities.
You say: enough, stop, no more...
And you don’t envy me.

We’d better go before the cigarette goes out.
Soon, you can feel it, there will be morning.
She’s waiting and she won’t sleep at all.
And the labourers will rise.

And I am, you know, at a crossroads.
Though I would make a life if I wanted to.
I can see a puppy, a puppet, a pot.
I would just have to be nice.

You also used to be at a crossroads
Today you understand these conditions.
And you work, you know, like that dog...
And my life is shaking like a leaf.

Time to go, the finches are already singing.
Soon, you see, there will be morning.
To go home, to rub the eyes, to wash the teeth.
Before the labourers rise.

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I'll buy you a tea or whatever if you tell me how to translate
"proszę pana" better than this.

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...