|
I
One day, in Kharkov, in a working-class area,
(O that Russian South, where all the women
Have their white shawls on their heads, with the air of a Madonna!)
I saw a young woman return to the fount
Carrying, as
the custom is there, as in Ovid’s time,
Two pails hung from the ends of a piece of wood
Balanced on her neck and shoulders,
And I saw a child in rags approach and speak to her.
Then,
inclining her body charmingly to her right,
She made the pail full of water touch the pavement
At the height of the child’s lips who kneeled to drink.
II
One morning,
in Rotterdam, on the Boompjes quay,
(It was September 18th, 1900, around eight o’clock),
I observed two young girls off to their workshops;
And before one of the great iron bridges, they said goodbye,
Their ways
not being the same.
They kissed tenderly; their trembling hands
Wished and wished not to separate; their mouths
Went away sadly to return at once
While with
steady eyes they looked at each other…
So they took a long moment very close together,
Standing and not moving amidst busy passersby,
While
tugboats rumbled on the river,
And trains maneuvered whistling on the iron bridges.
III
Between
Cordova and Seville
Is a little station, where, without apparent reason,
The Sud-Express always stops.
Vainly the voyager looks for eyes in the village
Beyond that
little depot dozing beneath the eucalyptus:
He only sees the Andalusian countryside: green and gold.
Nonetheless, on the other side of the tracks, facing you,
There is a hut made of blackened branches and earth,
And at the
sound of a train a horde of ragged brats emerges.
The elder sister comes before, stepping quite near on the quay
And, saying not a word, but smiling,
She dances to
pick up coins.
Her feet in the dust look black;
Her dark face is dirty and sans beauty;
She dances, and through the great holes in her ashen dress
You see, bare, her skinny thighs shake,
And roll her little yellow belly;
And every time,
for that, some gentlemen snigger,
In the aroma of cigars, in the dining car…
P.S.
O my God,
will it never be possible
For me to know that gentle woman, there, in Little Russia,
And those two girlchums in Rotterdam,
And the young beggar of Andalusia
And that I
join with them
In indissoluble amity?
(Alas, they will not read this poem,
They will not know my name nor the tenderness of my heart;
And
nonetheless they exist; they’re living now.)
Will it never be possible that that great joy be given me,
To know them?
For, I know
not why, my God, it seems to me that with all four,
I could conquer a world!
|