We present this work in honor of the poet’s 500th birthday.

Sweetness, Let’s go see whether the Rose
who this morning had opened
her dress of crimson to the Sun,
this evening has at all lost
the pleats of her crimson dress
and her complexion the same as yours.

Alas! Behold how, in a little space,
Sweetness, she has, on the spot, alas, alas
let all her beauties fall!
O Nature is truly a cruel mother
since such a flower lasts
only from morning to evening.

So, if you will believe me, Sweetness,
while your age is in flower
in its green newness,
gather, gather your youth:
for, the same as this flower, old age
will tarnish your beauty.

Translation by William Calin

We present this work in honor of V-E Day.

 

A voice, a voice from so far away
It no longer makes the ears tingle.
A voice like a muffled drum
Still reaches us clearly.

Though it seems to come from the grave
It speaks only of summer and spring.
It floods the body with joy.
It lights the lips with a smile.

I listen. It is simply a human voice
Which passes over the noise of life and its battles
The crash of thunder and the murmur of gossip.

And you? Don’t you hear it?
It says “The pain will soon be over”
It says “The happy season is near.”

Don’t you hear it?

Translation by William Kulik

We present this work in honor of the poet’s 185th birthday.

 

The vase where this verbena is dying
was cracked by a blow from a fan.
It must have barely brushed it,
for it made no sound.

But the slight wound,
biting into the crystal day by day,
surely, invisibly crept
slowly all around it.

The clear water leaked out drop by drop.
The flowers’ sap was exhausted.
Still no one suspected anything.
Don’t touch! It’s broken.

Thus often does the hand we love,
barely touching the heart, wound it.
Then the heart cracks by itself
and the flower of its love dies.

Still intact in the eyes of the world,
it feels its wound, narrow and deep,
grow and softly cry.
It’s broken. Don’t touch!

 

Cursed!
be the father of the bride
of the blacksmith who forged the iron for the axe
with which the woodsman hacked down the oak
from which the bed was carved
in which was conceived the great-grandfather
of the man who was driving the carriage
in which your mother met your father.

We present this work in honor of the 125th anniversary of the poet’s death.

 

Princess! to envy the fate of a Hebe
Who appears on this porcelain cup at a kiss
from your lips,
I enjoy my passion but have no rank
other than priest
And I shall scarcely be shown naked on pottery.
As I am not your furry lapdog,
Neither rouge, nor clever games
And I feel your close glance falling on me,

Blonde whose divine coiffeurs are goldsmiths!
Name us… you whose raspberry laughter
Is joined in a flock of tamed lambs
Grazing on vows and bleating to their
heart’s content,
Name us… so that Love with fanlike wings
Combs me, fingering his flute, as I slumber
in the sheepfold,
Princess, name us shepherd of your smiles.