Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Jordi Doce

DE VITA BEATA

Given how things were,
he decided enough was enough,
the crackling of the sky sufficed,
the deep grey of the reedbeds.
“The gods kneel in your home,”
he heard, and smiled complacently.
Birds in the hand, the silence of sand
of the hours, the lime bridling the eyes.
The wafer of life melted on his tongue,
in his tentacular blood, and it was a serene,
almost expert tiredness,
the root of the snow sprouted in his hand.
Everything travelled on a tolerant track,
lights that shone or switched off depending on the time.
Retired to the peace of this desert,
what use are books, he refuted,
and then: and for whom.

DE VITA BEATA

DE VITA BEATA

Así las cosas,
decidió que no más,
que le bastaba el crepitar del cielo,
el hondo gris de los cañaverales.
«Los dioses se arrodillan en tu casa»,
oyó decir, y sonrió complacido.
Pájaros en la mano, el silencio de arena
de las horas, la cal embridando los ojos.
La oblea de la vida se fundía en su lengua,
en la sangre tentacular, y era un cansancio
sereno, casi experto,
la raíz de la nieve retoñada en su mano.
Todo viajaba en un carril transigente,
luces que brillan o se apagan según las horas.
Retirado en la paz de estos desiertos,
para qué libros, refutaba,
y luego: para quién.
Close

DE VITA BEATA

Given how things were,
he decided enough was enough,
the crackling of the sky sufficed,
the deep grey of the reedbeds.
“The gods kneel in your home,”
he heard, and smiled complacently.
Birds in the hand, the silence of sand
of the hours, the lime bridling the eyes.
The wafer of life melted on his tongue,
in his tentacular blood, and it was a serene,
almost expert tiredness,
the root of the snow sprouted in his hand.
Everything travelled on a tolerant track,
lights that shone or switched off depending on the time.
Retired to the peace of this desert,
what use are books, he refuted,
and then: and for whom.

DE VITA BEATA

Given how things were,
he decided enough was enough,
the crackling of the sky sufficed,
the deep grey of the reedbeds.
“The gods kneel in your home,”
he heard, and smiled complacently.
Birds in the hand, the silence of sand
of the hours, the lime bridling the eyes.
The wafer of life melted on his tongue,
in his tentacular blood, and it was a serene,
almost expert tiredness,
the root of the snow sprouted in his hand.
Everything travelled on a tolerant track,
lights that shone or switched off depending on the time.
Retired to the peace of this desert,
what use are books, he refuted,
and then: and for whom.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Hendrik Muller fonds
Lira fonds
J.E. Jurriaanse
Literature Translation Institute of Korea
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère