شكرا للأشواك.. علّمتني الكثير - Rabindranath Tagore

WE ARE TO PLAY THE GAME OF DEATH

E are to play the game of death to-night, my bride and I.

The night is black, the clouds in the sky are capricious, and the waves are raving at sea.

We have left our bed of dreams, flung open the door and come out, my bride and I.

We sit upon a swing, and the storm winds give us a wild push from behind.

My bride starts up with fear and delight, she trembles and clings to my breast.

Long have I served her tenderly.

I made for her a bed of flowers and I closed the doors to shut out the rude light from her eyes.

I kissed her gently on her lips and whispered softly in her ears till she half swooned in languor.

She was lost in the endless mist of vague sweetness.

She answered not to my touch, my songs failed to arouse her.

To-night has come to us the call of the storm from the wild.

My bride has shivered and stood up, she has clasped my hand and come out.

Her hair is flying in the wind, her veil is fluttering, her garland rustles over her breast.

The push of death has swung her into life.

We are face to face and heart to heart, my bride and I.

استَيْقَظْتُ
فَوَجَدْتُ رِسَالَتِه تَأْتِيني مَع الصَّبَاحِ
لا أَدْرِي مَا تَقُولُ الرِّسالةُ
لأَنِّي لاَ أَعْرِفُ القرَاءَةَ
سَأَدَعُ العَالِم الحَكِيم مُنْصَرِفاً إِلى كُتُبِهِ
وَلَسْتُ أَرْغَب في مُضَايَقَتِهِ
مَنْ يَدْرِي إِذا كَان سَيعْرِفُ مَا تَقُولُه الرِّسَالة
سأَطْبَعُهَا على جَبِينِي
وأَشُدُّها إِلى صَدْرِي
وحِينَ يَشيِيعُ السُّكُونُ في اللّيْلِ
وتَسْطَعُ النُّجُوم وَاحِدَةً بَعْدَ أُخْرَى
سَأَنْشُرَها فِي حِضْنِي
وأَظَلُّ صَامِتاً.
إن حفِيف الأَوْرَاق
سَيَتْلُوهَا عَلَيَّ بِصَوْتٍ عَالٍ.
ونُجُومُ الثُرَيَّا السَّبْع
ستُغَنِّيَها لِي مِن السَّمَاءِ.
لاَ أَعْرِفُ كَيْف أَعْثُرُ عَلَى مَا أَبْحثُ عَنْهُ
وَلاَ أَدْرِي مَا الذِي يَنْبَغِي عَلَيَّ مَعْرِفَتُهُ وَتَعلُّمُهُ
ولَكِن هَذِه الرِّسَالَة
خَفَّفَت أَعْبَائِي
وأَحَالَت أَفْكَارِي إِلي أُغْنِيَاتٍ.

In learning a language, when from mere words we reach the laws of words, we have gained a great deal. But if we stop at that point and concern ourselves only with the marvels of the formation of a language, seeking the hidden reason of all its apparent caprices, we do not reach that end, for grammar is not literature… When we come to literature, we find that, though it conforms to the rules of grammar, it is yet a thing of joy; it is freedom itself. The beauty of a poem is bound by strict laws, yet it transcends them. The laws are its wings. They do not keep it weighed down. They carry it to freedom. Its form is in law, but its spirit is in beauty. Law is the first step toward freedom, and beauty is the complete liberation which stands on the pedestal of law. Beauty harmonizes in itself the limit and the beyond – the law and the liberty.