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On Angels

波兰/米沃什
All was taken away from you: white dresses,
wings, even existence.
Yet I believe you,
messengers.

There, where the world is turned inside out,
a heavy fabric embroidered with stars and beasts,
you stroll, inspecting the trustworthy seems.

Short is your stay here:
now and then at a matinal hour, if the sky is clear,
in a melody repeated by a bird,
or in the smell of apples at close of day
when the light makes the orchards magic.

They say somebody has invented you
but to me this does not sound convincing
for the humans invented themselves as well.

The voice -- no doubt it is a valid proof,
as it can belong only to radiant creatures,
weightless and winged (after all, why not?),
girdled with the lightening.

I have heard that voice many a time when asleep
and, what is strange, I understood more or less
an order or an appeal in an unearthly tongue:

day draw near
another one
do what you can.


Submitted by sophie
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米沃什简介

切斯瓦夫·米沃什(1911-2004),美籍波兰诗人、散文家、文学史家。1980年获诺贝尔文学奖,诗歌主题取材极广,技巧多样,诗歌里包含的文化渊源、地域知识、哲学思想,与诗人的敏感性相结合,因而受到高度赞誉。出版的诗集有《白昼之光》、《诗的论文》、《波别尔王和其它的诗》、《中了魔的古乔》、《没有名字的城市》、《太阳从何处升起,在何处下沉》、《诗歌集》等 ...[米沃什的诗]

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