End and Beginning

by Wistawa Szymborska

 

After each war
somebody has to clear up,
put things in order,
by itself it won't happen.

Somebody's got to push
rubble to the highway shoulder
making way
for the carts filled up with corpses.

Someone must trudge
through muck and ashes,
sofa springs,
splintered glass,
and blood-soaked rugs.

Somebody has to haul
beams for propping a wall,
another put glass in a window
and hang the door on hinges.

This is not photogenic
and takes years.
All the cameras have left already
for another war.

Bridges are needed,
also new railroad stations.
Tatters turn into sleeves
for rolling up.

Somebody, broom in hand,
still recalls how it was.
Someone whose head was not
torn away listens nodding.
But nearby already
begin to bustle those
who'll need persuasion.

Somebody still at times
digs up from under the bushes
 some rusty quibble
to add it to burning refuse. 

Those who knew
what this was all about
must yield to those who know little
or less than little,
essentially nothing. 

In the grass that has covered
effects in causes
somebody must recline,
a stalk of rye in the teeth,
ogling the clouds.

1993

Joseph Brodsky [dịch qua tiếng Anh, trong Collected Poems in English]

 

THE END AND THE BEGINNING

After every war
someone has to tidy up.
Things won't pick themselves up, after all.

Someone has to shove
the rubble to the roadsides
so the carts loaded with corpses
can get by. 

Someone has to trudge
through sludge and ashes,
through the sofa springs,
the shards of glass,
the bloody rags. 

Someone has to lug the post
to prop the wall,
someone has to glaze the window,
set the door in its frame. 

No sound bites, no photo opportunities,
and it takes years.
All the cameras have gone
to other wars. 

The bridges need to be rebuilt,
the railroad. stations, too.
Shirtsleeves will be rolled
to shreds. 

Someone, broom in hand,
still remembers how it was.
Someone else listens, nodding
his unshattered head. 

But others are bound to be bustling nearby
who'll find all that
a little boring. 

From time to time someone still must
dig up a rusted argument
from underneath a bush
and haul it off to the dump.

Those who knew
what this was all about
must make way for those
who know little.
And less than that.
And at last nothing less than nothing. 

Someone has to lie there
in the grass that covers up
the causes and effects
with a cornstalk in his teeth,
gawking at clouds.

Stanislaw Baranczak và Clare Cavanagh dịch]