Znalazłam tylko angielskie wersje. Warto
Wake up. Day calls you
Wake up. Day calls you
to your life: your duty.
And to live, nothing more.
Root it out of the glum
night and the darkness
that covered your body
for which light waited
on tiptoe in the dawn.
Stand up, affirm the straight
simple will to be
a pure slender virgin.
Test your bodys metal.
cold, heat? Your blood
will tell against the snow,
or behind the window.
The colour
in your cheeks will tell.
And look at people. Rest
doing no more than adding
your perfection to another
day. Your task
is to carry your life high,
and play with it, hurl it
like a voice to the clouds
so it may retrieve the light
already gone from us.
That is your fate: to live
Do nothing.
Your work is you, nothing more.
When you chose me
When you chose me—
love chose—
I came out of the great anonymity
from everyone, from nothing.
Till then
I was never taller than
the sierras of the world.
I never sank deeper
than the maximum
depths marked out
on maritime charts.
And my gladness was
sad, as small watches are
without a wrist to fasten to,
without a winding crown, stopped.
But when you said: you,
to me, yes, to me singled out,
I was higher than stars,
deeper than coral.
And my joy
began to spin, caught
in your being, in your pulse.
You gave me possession of myself
when you gave your self to me.
I lived. I live. How long?
I know you will back out.
When you go
I will go back to a deaf
world that does not distinguish
gram or drop
in weight or water.
I'll be one more—like the rest—
when you are lost.
I'll lose my name,
my age, my gestures, all
lost in me, from me.
Gone back to the immense bone heap
of those who have not died
and now have nothing
to die for in life.
Fear
Fear. Of you. Loving you
is the highest risk.
Multiple, you and your life.
I have you, today's you;
I know her now, I enter
through labyrinths, easy
thanks to you, to your hand.
And mine now, yes.
But you are
your own beyond
like light and the world:
days, nights, summers,
winters succeeding themselves.
Fatally, you change
without ceasing to be you,
in your own change,
with the constant fidelity
of change itself.
Tell me, will I be able to live
in those other climes,
or futures, or lights
that you are elaborating
like fruit does its juice,
for your tomorrow?
Or will I be only something
that was born for one day
of yours (my eternal day),
for one Spring
(in me forever in flower)
without being able to live any more
when there arrive
successive in you,
inevitably,
new forces and new winds,
other lights,
that already await the moment
of being, in you, your life?
