dimanche 19 avril 2009 : la septième journée
Il y a quelques jours, j'ai acheté le livre "Nothing twice: collected poems" de Wisława Szymborska (née le 2 juillet 1923, prix Nobel de littérature en 1996), qui habite encore à Cracovie. Je l'ai lu dans un café cet après-midi.
from "Nothing twice"
Nothing can ever happen twice.
In consequence, the sorry fact is
that we arrive here improvised
and leave without the chance to practice.
No day copies yesterday,
no two nights will teach what bliss is
in precisely the same way,
with exactly the same kisses.
Why do we treat the fleeting day
with so much needless fear and sorrow?
It's in its nature not to stay:
Today is always gone tomorrow.
Conceived on a mattress made of human hair.
Gerda. Erika. Maybe Margarete.
She doesn't know, no, not a thing about it.
This kind of knowledge isn't suited
to being passed on or absorbed.
The Greek Furies were too righteous.
Their birdy excess would rub us the wrong way.
Irma. Brigitte. Maybe Frederika.
She's twenty-two, perhaps a little older.
She knows the three languages that all travellers need.
The company she works for plans to export
the finest mattresses, synthetic fiber only.
Trade brings nations closer.
Berta. Ulrike. Maybe Hildegard.
Not beautiful perhaps, but tall and slim.
Cheeks, neck, breast, thighs, belly
in full bloom now, shiny and new.
Blissfully barefoot on Europe's beaches,
she unbraids her bright hair, right down to her knees.
My advice: don't cut it (her hairdresser says)
once you have, it'll never grow back so thick.
It's been proved
tausend- und tausendmal.