We may, long time from now, remember
this very simple episode,
this very bench where we are seated,
our burning temples jointly bowed.
From hazel stamens all around us,
from aspens, dazzling pollen pours.
Spring's blooming frenzy speaks abundance.
Beginnings flood through hopeful doors.
The golden powder keeps on falling
and piling up in precious stacks.
It floats and falls onto our lashes,
and on our shoulders and our backs.
It falls into our mouths when speaking,
and in our eyes, when words lie deep.
And lurking, unsuspected sorrows
upon our bliss begin to creep.
We may, long time from now, remember
this very simple episode,
this very bench where we are seated,
our burning temples jointly bowed.
We dream, and in our dreams we fancy
- through all the pollen that we spill -
those woods we seem so close to grasping,
yet never do - and never will.
(1951)
(Translated by Paul Abucean)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem