Искусствоед
Ingeborg Bachmann
Paris
Aufs Rad der Nacht geflochten,
schlafen die Verlorenen
in den donnernden Gängen unten,
dort wo wir sind, ist Licht.
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Ingeborg Bachmann
The Collected Poems
Paris
Lashed to the wheel of night
the lost ones sleep
in the thunderous passages beneath;
but where we are, it's light.
Our arms are full of blossoms,
mimosa from many years;
goldness showers from bridge after bridge
breathless into the stream.
Cold is the light,
colder yet the stone before the portal,
and the basins of fountains
are already half empty.
What will happen if we, homesick
and dazed with windblown hair,
remain here and ask: what will happen
if we can withstand such beauty?
Lifted onto the wagon of light,
and walking, we are lost
in the alleys of brilliance above;
but where we are not, it's night.
transl. by Peter Filkins
Paris
Aufs Rad der Nacht geflochten,
schlafen die Verlorenen
in den donnernden Gängen unten,
dort wo wir sind, ist Licht.
читать дальше
Ingeborg Bachmann
The Collected Poems
Paris
Lashed to the wheel of night
the lost ones sleep
in the thunderous passages beneath;
but where we are, it's light.
Our arms are full of blossoms,
mimosa from many years;
goldness showers from bridge after bridge
breathless into the stream.
Cold is the light,
colder yet the stone before the portal,
and the basins of fountains
are already half empty.
What will happen if we, homesick
and dazed with windblown hair,
remain here and ask: what will happen
if we can withstand such beauty?
Lifted onto the wagon of light,
and walking, we are lost
in the alleys of brilliance above;
but where we are not, it's night.
transl. by Peter Filkins