by Ingeborg Bachmann
If houses here are green, I’ll
step inside a house.
If bridges here are sound, I’ll
walk on solid ground.
If love’s labour’s lost in every
age, I’ll gladly lose it here.
If it’s not me, it’s one who is as
good as me.
If a word here borders on me, I’ll
let it border.
If Bohemia still lies by the sea,
I’ll believe in the sea again.
And believing in the sea, thus I
can hope for land.
If it’s me, then it’s anyone, for
he’s as worthy as me.
I want nothing more for myself. I
want to go under.
Under – that means the sea, there
I’ll find Bohemia again.
From my grave, I wake in peace.
From deep down I know now, and I’m
not lost.
Come here, all you Bohemians,
seafarers, dock whores, and ships
unanchored. Don’t you want to be
Bohemians, all you Illyrians,
Veronese and Venetians. Play the
comedies that make us laugh
until we cry. And err a hundred
times,
as I erred and never withstood the
trials,
though I did withstand them time
after time.
As Bohemia withstood them and one
fine day
was released to the sea and now
lies by water.
I still border on a word and on
another land,
I border, like little else, on
everything more and more,
a Bohemian, a
wandering minstrel, who has nothing, who
is held by nothing,
gifted
only at seeing, by a doubtful sea,
the land of
my choice.
- translated by Peter Filkins
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