You sit in the garden alone with the notebook, a sandwich, flask and pipe.
It is night, but so quiet that the light burns without flicker
disseminates a reflection of the table of rough boards
and shines in the bottle and glass.
You take a sip, a bite, you stuff and light your pipe.
You write a line or two and step back to pause and ponder
streak of the evening redness that progresses towards dawn,
sea of wild chervil, frothy green and white in the summer night darkness,
not a moth around the light but the choirs of mosquitoes in the oak,
leaves so still against the sky. . . And aspen that rustle in the stillness:
The whole nature strong from love and death around you.
As if it was the last evening before a long, long journey:
You have the ticket in your pocket and finally everything is packed.
And you can sit and sense the nearness of the distant land,
sense how all is in all, both its end and its beginning,
sense that here and now is both your departure and return,
sense how death and life are as strong as wine inside you!
Yes, being one with the night, one with myself, with low light
who looks me in the eye quiet, inscrutable and silent,
one with aspen that trembles and whispers,
one with flowers, flocks leans out of the darkness and listen
to something I had on the tip of my tongue, but never was said,
something I did not want to betray even if I could.
And it's bubbling inside of me of pure happiness!
And the flame rises. . . It is as if the flowers crowdedcloser,
closer and closer to the light in shimmering rainbow dots.
The aspen trembles and plays, afterglow exceeds
and everything that was untold and far away is now near and unspeakable.
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I sing about the only thing that reconciles,
the only practical, for all alike.
Gunnar Ekelöf
Ets assegut al jardí tot sol amb el bloc de notes, unsandvitx, flascó i pipa.
És de nit, però tan calma que la llum crema sense vacil.lar,
escampa un reflex damunt la taula de rústecs taulons
i llueix en ampolla i got.
Prens un glop, un mos, atacones bé i encens la pipa.
Escrius una ratlla, dues, fas una pausa i penses
en el raig rogenc de l'ocàs que avança vers l'aurora,
mar de cerfull, escumejant blanc verdós en la foscor de la nit d'estiu.
Cap papalló al llum però cor de mosquits al roure,
fullam tan quiet contra el cel...i el trèmol que cruixen la calma:
Tota la natura forta d'amor i la mort entorn teu.
Com si fos l'últim vespre abans d'un llarg, llarg viatge.
Tens el billet a la butxaca i tot esta empaquetat.
I hom pot seure i sentir properes les terres distants,
sentir com tot és en tot, alhora la fi i l'inici,
sentir que ara i aquí és ensems anada i retorn,
sentir com vida i mort són fortes com vi dins d'un mateix!
Si, formar part de la nit, de mi mateix, de la flama
que em mira als ulls quieta, insondable i quieta,
del trèmol que fremeix i xiuxiua,
del munt de flors que sorgeixen de la foscor i escolten
quelcom que tenia a la punta de la llengua i mai vaig dir,
quelcom que no volia trair encara que pogués.
I que mormola dins meu de pura felicitat!
I la flama creix... Es com si les flors s'esmunyíssin
mes a prop i mes a prop la llum en resplendents punts de l'iris.
El trèmol fremeix i toca, la rojor de l'ocàs passa
i allò que era callat i llunyà es ara callat i proper.
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Canto de l'únic que reconcilia,
l'úni pràctic, per a tothom igual.
