Autumn is eating a leaf from my hand: we are friends.
We are picking time out of a nut, we teach it to run:
and time rushes back to its shell.
In the mirror it's Sunday,
in dreams people sleep,
the mouth tells the truth.
My eye descends to the sex of my loved one,
we gaze at each other,
we whisper out darkness,
we love one another like poppies and memory,
we sleep like wine in a seashell,
like the sea in the moon's bloody rays.
Embracing we stand by the window, and people look up from
the street:
it is time that they knew!
It is time that the stone grew accustomed to blooming,
that unrest formed a heart.
It is time it was time.
It is time.
Notes
From 'Paul Celan: Selections' edited by Pierre Joris
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Comments
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Very nice poem. Always fun to read submitted translations to compare image applications. Line 2 in both versions present something slightly different. The overall beauty of this poem is still present. Beautiful.
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Jerome Rothenburg's translation:
Autumn is eating a leaf from my hand: we are friends.
We are picking time out of a nut, we teach it to run:
and time rushes back to its shell.
In the mirror it's Sunday,
in dreams people sleep,
the mouth tells the truth.
My eye descends to the sex of my loved one,
we gaze at each other,
we whisper out darkness,
we love one another like poppies and memory,
we sleep like wine in a seashell,
like the sea in the moon's bloody rays.
Embracing we stand by the window, and people look up from
the street:
it is time that they knew!
It is time that the stone grew accustomed to blooming,
that unrest formed a heart.
It is time it was time.
It is time.
From 'Paul Celan: Selections' edited by Pierre Joris
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