Holy Spring (Pyhã kevãt, 1901)

DOWNSTREAM DRIFTS THE BOAT

Down the stream drifts the boat.
Where’s the end of the road?
The surge beats the bow and the keel.
The human soul, what it is –
Like will-o’ the wisp, restless.
Sandy soil me calls, already holds my heel.
One is born to joy, another’s life is sad,
and in everybody’s heart the timer is counting,
when ticking stops, time comes for dying.

Downstream drifts the boat.
Where’s the end of the road?
Gloomy sins threaten doom.
A while the glory glows
then it turns into gloom,
a tiny pile of ash is all that remains.
And the sins, they grow and join other sins,
the son in cradle inherits sins of the father.
The chest fills up with trash, ash and clutter.

Where’s the end of the road?
Downstream drifts the boat.
Heavy load in my boat is shifting.
Ah, eternal sea!
Like a mirror, please be!
Be my still-water, friendly clouds reflect.
And world endless, growing old, out of breath,
time to rest, tired world, white-haired and aged.
Take a note of shaking shadows of death.

Downstream drifts the boat.
Where’s the end of the road?
No-one that knows among the living.
Earth and everything here
doomed to disappear –
how can human soul escape from dying?

These are my thoughts:
New dawn will make all things right
when no longer the wolf the lam eats,
when no longer the brother his brother beats
and men do not grind their swords to fight.

And all these lovely thoughts we dream
must be turned into actions, actions that matter.
The calling of man is ideals to gather!

Or is all this a lie?

 

 A SONG ABOUT LOVE

A sinful thought my brain huddles,
twisting like the snake circles.
One hand maiden’s nipple fiddles
the other the loin cuddles.

White thoughts on black skin curl –
what a great deal of color!
On bosom a snake, white like a pearl.
What a wicked lover!

 

WHAT IS MORE BEAUTIFUL?

What is more beautiful:
to believe that the freedom will begin,
to wish that enlightenment will win,
and to fight for enlightenment; –

or to fight knowing that dawn will not begin,
knowing that freedom will not win,
and to keep on fighting?

What is more beautiful:
to think, if the freedom will not win,
to ponder, if dawn will not begin,
why should I bother to fight at all?

Or to believe:
I am the child of the sunset, not of the dawn,
of enlightenment, though not as a winner born,
so, breaking up is my fate.

 

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