hormigas muriendo de amor bajo la constelación del diente de león

Tomando vino

Me miró, me dio belleza,

y yo la creí mía.

Feliz, me tragué la estrella.

Permití ser pensada

a imagen del reflejo

producido en sus ojos. Bailo, bailo

al compás de repentinas alas.

La mesa es una mesa, el vino, vino

en una copa, que es una copa

y está estando en la mesa.

Y yo soy imaginaria, increíblemente imaginaria,

imaginaria hasta la médula.

Le hablo de lo que quiere, de las hormigas

que mueren de amor

bajo la constelación del diente de león.

Juro que una rosa blanca

salpicada de vino, canta.

Me río, inclino la cabeza

con cuidado, como si comprobara

un invento. Bailo, bailo

en una sorprendida piel, en un abrazo,

que me crea.

La Eva de la costilla, la Venus de la espuma,

la Minerva de la cabeza de Júpiter

eran más reales.

Cuando él no me mira,

busco mi reflejo

en la pared. Y sólo veo

un clavo del que han descolgado un cuadro.

Drinking Wine

He looked, and gave me beauty,
and I took it as if mine.
Happy, I swallowed a star.

I allowed myself to be
invented in the likeness
of the reflection in his eyes.
I am dancing, dancing
in the flutter of sudden wings.

A table is a table.
Wine is wine in a glass
that is just a glass and stands
standing on a table. While
I am imaginary
to the point of no belief,
imaginary
to the point of blood.

I am telling him
what he want to hear: ants
dying of love under
the constellation of the dandelion.
I swear that a white rose,
sprinkled with wine, sings.

I am laughing, tilting
my head carefully
as if checking an invention
I am dancing, dancing
in astonished skin, in
an embrace that creates me.

Eve from a rib, Venus from sea-foam,
Minerva from Jove's head––
all were more real than I.

When he stops looking at me
I search for my reflection
on a wall. I see only
a nail from which a picture
has been removed

Wislawa Szymborska

Translated from the Polish by Graźyna Drabik and Sharon Olds


Over Wine

He glanced, gave me extra charm

and I took it as my own.

Happily I gulped a star.

 

I let myself be invented,

modelled on my own reflection

in his eyes. I dance, dance, dance

in the stir of sudden wings.

 

The chair’s a chair, the wine is wine,

in a wineglass that’s the wineglass

standing there by standing there.

Only I’m imaginary,

make-believe beyond belief,

so fictitious that it hurts.

 

And I tell him tales about

ants that die of love beneath

a dandelion’s constellation.

I swear a white rose will sing

if you sprinkle it with wine.

 

I laugh and I tilt my head

cautiously, as if to check

whether the invention works.

I dance, dance inside my stunned

skin, in his arms that create me.

 

Eve from the rib, Venus from foam,

Minerva from Jupiter’s head –

all three were more real than me.

 

When he isn’t looking at me,

I try to catch my reflection

on the wall. And I see the nail

where a picture used to be.