Nothing But Death

There are cemeteries that are lonely,

graves full of bones that do not make a sound,

the heart moving through a tunnel,

in it darkness, darkness, darkness,

like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves,

as though we were drowning inside our hearts,

as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul.

And there are corpses,

feet made of cold and sticky clay,

death is inside the bones,

like a barking where there are no dogs,

coming out from bells somewhere, from graves somewhere,

growing in the damp air like tears of rain.

Sometimes I see alone

coffins under sail,

embarking with the pale dead, with women that have dead hair,

with bakers who are as white as angels,

and pensive young girls married to notary public,

caskets sailing up the vertical river of the dead,

the river of dark purple,

moving upstream with sails filled out by the sound of death,

filled by the sound of death which is silence.

Death arrives among all that sound

like a shoe with no foot in it,like a suit with no man it it,

comes and knocks, using a ring with no stone in it, with no finger in it,

comes and shouts with no mouth , with no tongue, with no throat.

Nevertheless its steps can be heard

and its clothing makes hushed sound like a tree.

I'm not sure, I understand only a little, I can hardly see,

but it seems to me that it's singing has the color of damp violets,

of violets that are at home in the earth,

because the face of death is green,

and the look death gives is green,

with the penetrating dampness of a violet leaf

and the somber color of embittered winter.

But death also goes through the world dressed as broom,

lapping the floor, looking for dead bodies,

death is inside the broom,

the broom is the tongue of death looking for corpses,

it is the needle of death looking for thread.

Death is inside the folding cots:

it spends its life sleeping on the slow mattresses,

in the black blankets, and suddenly breathes out:

it blows out a mournful sound that swells the sheets,

and the beds go sailing towards a port

where death is waiting, dressed like an admiral.

Pablo Neruda
(July 12, 1904 – September 23, 1973)
[Won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1971]

[English translation by Robert Bly]
[From http://www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive]

ပံုကို http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pablo_Neruda မွ ရယူပါသည္။

မရဏလမ္းဆံုး

အထီးက်န္သုႆာန္

တိတ္ဆိတ္အရိုးစု ျပည့္ ဂူသခ်ၤဳိင္း

အေမွာင္..အမိုက္..အမဲ

လိုဏ္ေခါင္းထဲမွာ ရင္တစံုေရြ ့။

သေဘၤာပ်က္တစင္းလိုပ…

ကိုယ့္ေသတြင္းကိုယ္တူး

ကိုယ့္ရင္ဘတ္ထဲ ကုိယ္နစ္ေသ

ရုပ္မွဖဲခြာ..နာမ္မွာေပါင္းစည္း။

အေသေကာင္ရဲ့

ေအးစက္ ေစးကပ္ ေၾကြသား ေျခမ်ား

အရိုးစုထဲက ေသျခင္း

ေခြးမရွိတဲ့ေဟာင္သံ

မရဏေခါင္းေလာင္းသံ…..

ဟိုး…သုသာန္တေနရာက

ေၾကကြဲမိုးရြာသလို ေလထဲမွာလြင့္ပ်ံ ့။

တခါသား ငါျမင္

ရြက္လႊင့္ေခါင္းတလားမွာ

သက္မဲ့ဆံႏြယ္ရွင္ လိုက္ပါ

၀ိဥာည္ဆြတ္ျဖဴ

နစ္ေမ်ာအေတြးထဲ အဓိပၸါယ္ဖြင့္

ေဒါင္လိုက္ဆန္တက္ ေခါင္းတလားမ်ား

ခရမ္းရင့္နဒီတေလ်ာက္

မရဏဂီတနဲ ့ ဆန္တက္ရြက္လႊင့္

(အဲဒီဂီတမွာ)

တိတ္ဆိတ္ေသျခင္းအသံသာလႊမ္းေနေလရဲ့။

ဒီအသံေတြၾကားက….

အဆံမဲ့ေခါင္းေလာင္းအား လက္မဲ့တီး၍ တံခါးလာေခါက္ကာ

ေျခမဲ့ဖိနပ္ ကိုယ္မဲ့၀တ္ရံု ျဖင့္

ေသမင္းေရာက္လာ..။

ေျခသံ..

အ၀တ္ေလတိုးသံ.. သစ္ပင္ယိမ္းႏြဲ ့သံ မ်ား ၾကားေသာ္ျငား..

ႏုတ္ လွ်ာ အာ မဲ့ စြာ

လာေရာက္ေၾကာင္း ဟစ္ေၾကြးပါ။

ပါးပါးပဲနားလည္ နဲနဲပဲျမင္ရ..

သိပ္ေတာ့မေသခ်ာလွ..။

ခရမ္းျပာေတးသံနဲ ့

ေျမကမၻာရဲ့အိမ္မွာေန

မရဏမွာ အစိမ္းေရာင္မ်က္ႏွာရွိေလေတာ့..

ခါးသည္းေဆာင္းရဲ့ ေၾကကြဲေရာင္နဲ ့

အတားအဆီးခရမ္းျပာရြက္ ေဖါက္ထြက္သြားေလာက္ေသာ

ေသမင္း၏ အၾကည့္စိမ္းမ်ား။

အ၀ါေရာင္ဆင္ျမန္း ေသမင္းလွမ္းလာ ေျမကမၻာတေလ်ာက္

ခုန္ပ်ံေက်ာ္လႊား၍ သူေသရွာေဖြ

ရင့္ေရာ္၀ါေသျခင္း..

ေသျခင္းကိုျမည္းစမ္းမယ့္ လွ်ာ

ေသမင္းအပ္ရဲ့ ခ်ည္ၾကိဳးသာ..။

ေခါက္ပုခက္ထဲက ေသျခင္း

အိပ္စက္ရင္း ေသဖို ့ေစာင့္

ေစာင္နက္ကိုျခံဳ..လ်ပ္တျပက္ ထြက္သက္

ငိုညည္းသံအံုၾကြ

ကမ္းတခုဆီ

အိပ္မက္ရင္း ရြက္လႊင့္

အဲဒီမွာ..

ခန္ ့ခန္ ့ညားညား

ေရတပ္ဗိုလ္ခ်ဳပ္ၾကီးအ၀တ္အစားနဲ ့

ေသမင္းက ေစာင့္ေနတယ္။

[ျခိမ့္ထက္]

မွတ္ခ်က္။ တိုက္ရုိက္ဘာသာျပန္ျခင္း၊ သြယ္၀ိုက္ဘာသာျပန္ျခင္း၊ ဆီေလ်ာ္သလို ဘာသာျပန္ျခင္း မဟုတ္ပါ။ ခံစားရသလို ျပန္ဆိုထားျခင္းသာျဖစ္ပါသည္။