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I kenn da a platzl, zwischn zowa Reiha vo baam, wo s'gråss an hügi auffi wåchst und de oide stråssn ausm Widastaund (1) eini-biagt, in schåttn, beim haus wo ma si troffm håd, des d'vafoigtn valåssn håbm, de in de schåttn vaschwundn han. Beim Schwammalsuacha bin I drau vurbei, glei am Grat vuarm Baunga, åwa teisch' di ned, es is ka russisches Gedicht; 's is nirgns wo aundas ois gråd då!, des, unsa Laund, des oiwei nu naacha zuwi kimmt, zu seim eigna Wåhr und Baunga, aun d'eigna Årt, wiar's d'Leid vaschwindn låsst I werd da ned sågn, wo des platzl is, wo's finstre netz aus hoiz den vastecktn(2) stroafm liacht dawischt es hoamgsuachte wegkreiz, 's paradies fiarn blattl-muich : I woass da wen, der's kaffm mecht, vakafft, und måchat, dass's vaschwindt Und, na, i såg da ned, wo's steht - warum såg i da üwahaupt irgendwås? Weist ma du nu zua-hearst, wei's in zeidn so wia de, wo'st ma üwahaupt nu zuarherst, wichti(g) is das ma vo baama rednt |
There's a place between two stands of trees where the grass grows uphill and the old revolutionary road breaks off into shadows near a meeting-house abandoned by the persecuted who disappeared into those shadows. I've walked there picking mushrooms at the edge of dread, but don't be fooled this isn't a Russian poem, this is not somewhere else but here, our country moving closer to its own truth and dread, its own ways of making people disappear. I won't tell you where the place is, the dark mesh of the woods meeting the unmarked strip of light— ghost-ridden crossroads, leafmold paradise: I know already who wants to buy it, sell it, make it disappear. And I won't tell you where it is, so why do I tell you anything? Because you still listen, because in times like these to have you listen at all, it's necessary to talk about trees. The English version is copied from www.poetryfoundation.org (2018-03-22 18:30) |