Ó, drágám, önszivedbe nézz:
ott nőtt a szent fölségű fa;
sudara örömtől merész,
virágban remeg ágboga.
Gyümölcse szivárványszinű,
mennybéli csillag tűköre.
Gyökere biztos erejű,
az éj nyugalmát szövi be.
Zene kél ingó sudarán,
hullámnak ő ad ütemet,
zenével házasítja szám
s varázsdalt dúdolok neked.
Bikfic Szerelmek lengik át
a kulcsolódó ágakat,
dobálnak tüzes karikát:
kettőnk sorsával játszanak.
Hajukat, fürge táncukat
ha látod, álomtájon élsz,
betölt az édes ámulat:
ó, drágám, önszivedbe nézz.
Gyötrő tükrödbe ne tekints:
kereng ott démoni csapat.
Tekintetedből ne teríts
dobajuk alá sugarat.
Mögöttük végzetes a kép:
örvényes éj üvölt, itél,
gyökeret hó alól kitép,
fekete már a falevél.
Rombolt vidék, homályba fúlt,
fáradság tükre, meggyötör.
Mikor az isten elaludt,
akkor készült e bús tükör.
Kiehült holló röpköd ott:
a nyughatatlan gondolat.
Lelkedre lesve tébolyog
törötten csüngő lomb alatt.
A hangját hurcolja a szél,
rázkódó szárnya meglegyint,
s jaj, drága szemed elalél;
gyötrő tükrödbe ne tekints.
Fordította: Nagy László
~ o ~ o ~ o ~ o ~ o ~ o ~
The two trees
Beloved, gaze in thine own heart,
The holy tree is growing there;
From joy the holy branches start,
And all the trembling flowers they bear.
The changing colours of its fruit
Have dowered the stars with merry light;
The surety of its hidden root
Has planted quiet in the night;
The shaking of its leafy head
Has given the waves their melody,
And made my lips and music wed,
Murmuring a wizard song for thee.
There the Loves a circle go,
The flaming circle of our days,
Gyring, spiring to and fro
In those great ignorant leafy ways;
Remembering all that shaken hair
And how the wingèd sandals dart,
Thine eyes grow full of tender care:
Beloved, gaze in thine own heart.
Gaze no more in the bitter glass
The demons, with their subtle guile,
Lift up before us when they pass,
Or only gaze a little while;
For there a fatal image grows
That the stormy night receives,
Roots half hidden under snows,
Broken boughs and blackened leaves.
For all things turn to barrenness
In the dim glass the demons hold,
The glass of outer weariness,
Made when God slept in times of old.
There, through the broken branches, go
The ravens of unresting thought;
Flying, crying, to and fro,
Cruel claw and hungry throat,
Or else they stand and sniff the wind,
And shake their ragged wings; alas!
Thy tender eyes grow all unkind:
Gaze no more in the bitter glass.
The holy tree is growing there;
From joy the holy branches start,
And all the trembling flowers they bear.
The changing colours of its fruit
Have dowered the stars with merry light;
The surety of its hidden root
Has planted quiet in the night;
The shaking of its leafy head
Has given the waves their melody,
And made my lips and music wed,
Murmuring a wizard song for thee.
There the Loves a circle go,
The flaming circle of our days,
Gyring, spiring to and fro
In those great ignorant leafy ways;
Remembering all that shaken hair
And how the wingèd sandals dart,
Thine eyes grow full of tender care:
Beloved, gaze in thine own heart.
Gaze no more in the bitter glass
The demons, with their subtle guile,
Lift up before us when they pass,
Or only gaze a little while;
For there a fatal image grows
That the stormy night receives,
Roots half hidden under snows,
Broken boughs and blackened leaves.
For all things turn to barrenness
In the dim glass the demons hold,
The glass of outer weariness,
Made when God slept in times of old.
There, through the broken branches, go
The ravens of unresting thought;
Flying, crying, to and fro,
Cruel claw and hungry throat,
Or else they stand and sniff the wind,
And shake their ragged wings; alas!
Thy tender eyes grow all unkind:
Gaze no more in the bitter glass.
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