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.
