Stephen Mitchell

In the middle of this century (tiếng Anh)

In the middle of this century we turned to each other
with half face and full eyes
like an ancient Egyptian painting
and for a short time.

I stroked your hair in a direction opposite to your journey,
we called out to each other
as people call out the names of the cities they don’t stop in
along the road.

Beautiful is the world that wakes up early for evil,
beautiful is the world that falls asleep to sin and mercy,
in the profanity of our being together, you and I.
Beautiful is the world.

The earth drinks people and their loves
like wine, in order to forget. It won’t be able to.
And like the contours of the Judean mountains,
we also won’t find a resting-place.

In the middle of this century we turned to each other.
I saw your body, casting the shadow, waiting for me.
The leather straps of a long journey
had long since been tightened crisscross on my chest.
I spoke in praise of your mortal loins,
you spoke in praise of my transient face,
I stroked your hair in the direction of your journey,
I touched the tidings of your last day,
I touched your hand that has never slept,
I touched your mouth that now, perhaps, will sing.

Desert dust covered the table
we hadn’t eaten from.
But with my finger I wrote in it the letters of your name.

Statistics (tiếng Anh)

For every man in a rage there are always
two or three back-patters who will calm him,
for every weeper, many more tear-wipers,
for every happy man, plenty of sad ones
who want to warm themselves at his happiness.

And every night at least one man
can’t find his way home
or his home has moved to another place
and he runs around in the streets,
superfluous.

Once I was waiting with my little son at the station
as an empty bus went by. My son said:
“Look, a bus full of empty people”.

Threading (tiếng Anh)

Loving each other began this way: threading
loneliness into loneliness
patiently, our hands trembling
and precise.

Longing for the past gave our
eyes
The double security of what won’t
change
and of what can’t be returned to.

But the heart must kill one of us
on one of its forays,
if not you-me,
when it comes back empty-handed,
like Cain, a boomerang from the
field.