December by Adam Zagajewski
December, herald of destruction,
takes you on a long stroll
through the black torsos of trees
and leaves scorched in autumn’s fire,
as if to say: so much then for
your secrets and your treasures,
the fervent trill of small birds,
the promises of summer months.
Your dreams have been dissected,
the blackbird’s song now has a rationale,
plants’ corpses clutter the herbarium.
Only the laboratory’s hard stone remains.
Don’t listen: they may take everything away,
but they can’t have your ignorance,
they can’t take your mysteries, strip you
of your third homeland.
Don’t listen: the holidays draw near
and frozen January, snow’s white paper.
What you’ve waited for is being born.
The one you’re seeking will begin to sing.
—Translated by Clare Cavanagh
Vaporetto
In the wind-breaker’s pocket you find
a light blue ticket for the vaporetto
(il biglietto, non cedibile).
A light blue ticket, slightly larger
than a stamp from the republic of Togo,
promising a change, a journey.
Sealing-wax melts on a memory,
an almond of alpine snow thaws.
The expedition may proceed.
You’re in Texas, on flat land,
surrounded by evergreen oaks
that remember nothing.
You’ll swim through cramped canals
upstream, in a strong wind;
you’ll meet with icebergs, grayness.
The ticket says: corsa semplice,
but not a word about the desert,
the monotony of heavy seas,
about longing, or the spiteful customs man
who’s waiting, and not for you alone,
about islands of indifference and ash.
You’ll swim a long time. And may reach
the place where Venice the sea-urchin rests:
water, lace and gold.
You may reach the place where Venice’s
red towers rise, faithful towers,
the needles of a compass lost at sea.
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