Poezija — Poetry — La Poesia

And it was at that age . . . poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, not silence,
but from a street it called me,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among raging fires
or returning alone,
there it was, without a face,
and it touched me.

I didn't know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names,
my eyes were blind.
Something knocked in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire,
and I wrote the first, faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing;
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating plantations,
the darkness perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire, and flowers,
the overpowering night, the universe.

And I, tiny being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss.
I wheeled with the stars.
My heart broke loose with the wind.

   I bje u ono doba . . . dodje poezija
   da me potrazi. Ne znam, ne znam odakle je
   banula, iz zime ili iz rijeke.
   Ne znam ni kako ni kada.
   Ne, ne bjehu to glasovi, ne bjehu
   rijeci, ni tisina,
   ali zvala me iz jedne ulice,
   iz krosnje noci,
   iznenada, medju ostalima,
   medju zestokim ognjevima,
   ili dok se vracah sam,
   tamo je stajala bez lica
   i dodirivala me.

   Nisam znao što da kazem, usta mi
   nisu znala
   nista odrediti,
   oci mi bijahu slijepe,
   a nešto je udaralo u mojoj dusi,
   groznica ili izgubljena krila,
   i ostadoh sam
   odgonetajuci,
   tu opeklinu,
   i napisah prvi nejasan redak,
   nejasan, bez tijela, cistu
   glupost,
   cistu mudrost
   onoga koji nista ne zna,
   i odjednom vidjeh
   ocisceno i otvoreno nebo,
   planete,
   treptave plantaze,
   sjenu probusenu,
izbodenu
strijelama, vatru i cvijece,
noc koja uspavljuje, svemir.

I ja najsitnije bice,
pijan od goleme ozvjezdane
praznine,
na sliku i priliku
tajne,
osjetih se kao cisti dio
bezdana,
otkotrljah se sa zvijezdama,
srce mi se otisnu s vjetrom.

Y fue a esa edad . . . Llegó la poesía
a buscarme. No se, no se de donde
salió, de invierno o rio.
No sé como ni cuando,
no, no eran voces, no eran
palabras, ni silencio,
pero desde una calle me llamaba,
desde las ramas de la noche,
de pronto entre los otros,
entre fuegos violentos
o regresando solo,
alli estaba sin rostro
y me tocaba.

Yo no sabia qué decir, mi boca
no sabia
nombrar,
mis ojos eran ciegos,
y algo golpeaba en mi alma,
fiebre o alas perdidas,
y me fui haciendo solo,
descifrando
aquella quemadura,
y escribi la primera linea vaga,
vaga, sin cuerpo, pura
tonteria,
pura sabiduria
del que no sabe nada, y vi de pronto
el cielo
desgranado
y abierto,
planetas,
plantaciones palpitantes,
la sombra perforada,
acribillada
por flechas, fuego y flores,
la noche arrolladora, el universo.

Y yo, minimo ser,
ebrio del gran vacio
constelado,
a semejanza, a imagen
del misterio,
me senti parte pura
del abismo,
rode con las estrellas,
mi corazon se desato en el viento.

Poezija — Poetry — La Poesía

   Pablo Neruda

   (1904 - 1973)

1971. dobitnik Nobelove nagrade za knjizevnost
1971. Nobel Laureater in Literature

[ na fotografiji - photo: Pablo Neruda ]

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