Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Adonis

28

All that night has written about us, and still writes
cracks like dawn on our pillow, between your breasts
            and under your breasts
and among the roses of sheets that wrestle with us.
 
How many times have we read—and seen
our terrors written?
                                    I used to name you . . .
“but I still do not know who you are?”
So you said.
Night blots what dawn writes about us—
            what shall I name you? Who are you, who were you the night of my love?

28

Alles wat de nacht over ons schreef en schrijft
wordt als de morgen rond het kussen verbroken. Alles tussen je borsten
onder je borsten
in de roos van dekens die in ons krakelen
 
Hoe vaak lazen wij – zagen wij
onze schrik in de geschriften. Ik noemde jou . . .
‘Ik weet nog steeds niet wie je bent?’
jij praatte
terwijl de nacht wiste wat de morgen over ons schreef
Hoe zal ik je noemen? Wie ben jij, wie was jij in de nacht van mijn liefde?

82


كلّ ما كتب الليل عنّا ويكتبُ ،
     ينشقُّ كالفجر حول الوسادة ، ما بين نهديكِ ،
     ما تحت نهديك ،
     في وَرْدِ أغطيةٍ تخاصم فينا .
 
كم قرأنا – رأَيْنا
     في الكتابة أهوالَنا ، وكنتُ أُسمّيكِ ...
    " ما زلتُ أجهل من أنتِ ؟ "
      كنتِ تقولين ،
     والليل يطمس ما يكتب الفجر عنّا ،
فماذا أُسمّيكِ ؟ مَنْ أنتِ ، مَنْ كنتِ في ليل حبّي؟
Close

28

All that night has written about us, and still writes
cracks like dawn on our pillow, between your breasts
            and under your breasts
and among the roses of sheets that wrestle with us.
 
How many times have we read—and seen
our terrors written?
                                    I used to name you . . .
“but I still do not know who you are?”
So you said.
Night blots what dawn writes about us—
            what shall I name you? Who are you, who were you the night of my love?

28

All that night has written about us, and still writes
cracks like dawn on our pillow, between your breasts
            and under your breasts
and among the roses of sheets that wrestle with us.
 
How many times have we read—and seen
our terrors written?
                                    I used to name you . . .
“but I still do not know who you are?”
So you said.
Night blots what dawn writes about us—
            what shall I name you? Who are you, who were you the night of my love?
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
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