In honor of the languages I've once spoken- now only as a conglomerate in my dreams, I've chosen two poems to remind me that they exist independently and in real time.

Pablo Neruda

Now we will count to twelve
and we will all keep still.

This one time upon the earth,
let's not speak any language,
let's stop for one second,
and not move our arms so much.

It would be a delicious moment,
without hurry, without locomotives,
all of us would be together
in a sudden uneasiness.

The fishermen in the cold sea
would do no harm to the whales
and the peasant gathering salt
would look at his torn hands.

Those who prepare green wars,
wars of gas, wars of fire,
victories without survivors,
would put on clean clothing
and would walk alongside their brothers
in the shade, without doing a thing.

What I want shouldn't be confused
with final inactivity:
life alone is what matters,
I want nothing to do with death.

If we weren't unanimous
about keeping our lives so much in motion,

if we could do nothing for once,
perhaps a great silence would
interrupt this sadness,
this never understanding ourselves
and threatening ourselves with death,
perhaps the earth is teaching us
when everything seems to be dead
and then everything is alive.

Now I will count to twelve
and you keep quiet and I'll go.

Pablo Neruda

Ahora contaremos doce
y nos quedamos todos quietos.
Por una vez sobre la tierra
no hablemos en ningun idioma,
por un segundo detengamonos,
no movamos tanto los brazos.

Seria un minuto fragante,
sin prisa, sin locomotoras,
todos estariamos juntos
en una inquietud instantanea.

Los pescadores del mar frio
no harian danio a las ballenas
y el trabajador de la sal
miraria sus manos rotas.

Los que preparan guerras verdes,
guerras de gas, guerras de fuego,
victorias sin sobrevivientes,
se pondrian un traje puro
y andarian con sus hermanos
por la sombra, sin hacer nada.

No se confunda lo que quiero
con la inaccion definitiva:
la vida es solo lo que se hace,
no quiero nada con la muerte.

Si no pudimos ser unanimes
moviendo tanto nuestras vidas,
tal vez no hacer nada una vez,
tal vez un gran silencio pueda
interrumpir esta tristeza,
este no entendernos jamas
y amenazarnos con la muerte,
tal vez la tierra nos ensenie
cuando todo parece muerto
y luego todo estaba vivo.

Ahora contare hasta doce
y tu te callas y me voy.

Вадим Лесич

Пергами пам`яті пом`ятий, не шелестить,

як шумлять затьмарені сади вечора

і вітер гне, наче лук, дугу далечі

і луки ликують під фіялками сутінку.

Бурий дим - і округла, мов гльоб, порожнеча.
Дим від кострубатих кістяків життя,

що попеліють.
Порожнеча, яка чекає на повноту.

Пергамен пам`яті іржаво

запалює свічі на вівтарі вечора.

Мов мох полярний - синіють приморозки.

Під білими зорями тремтить,

мов павутиння, музика Гріга.

Речі зовсім не пов`язані, що існують
окремо кожне для себе, -

але, наче доспілі овочі з різних дерев,

- падають важко у тиші саду
на землю, що меркне в чеканні.

Тіні стають, мов дерева,

і дерева стають, мов тіні.

Пергамен пам`яті

піском розбитих дзеркал

у розсипаній пустині.


Vadym Lesych

The parchment of memory changing, not rustling,

like sound darkening gardens yesterday

and wind bends, as if a bow, the arch of distance

and meadows rejoice below the violets of twilight.

Chestnut smoke - and around me, like a globe, emptiness.

Smoke from the rough skeleton of life,

that turn to ashes.
Emptiness, which waits for fullness.

The parchment of memory rustily

lights candles on the altar of evening.

As polar moss - bluing frosts.
Under white stars trembles,

as if a cob webs, the music of Grieg.

Things totally unbound, that exist
each for itself,-
but, as ripened fruit from different trees,
- falling heavily in the silence of the orchard
to earth, which fades in waiting.

Shadows become as trees,
and tress become as shadows.
The parchment of memory rustles,
the sand of shattered mirrors
in the spilled desert.

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