<花石亭>
-李珥-
林亭秋已晩
騷客意無窮
遠水連天碧
霜楓向日紅
山吐孤輪月
江含萬里風
塞鴻何處去
聲斷暮雲中
母の手
夜半目覚めて
廊下をこちらに近づいてくる
静かな母の足音を聞くことがある
それを空耳と知りながら
ふすまがなお静かに開けられて
母の手が 私のふとんをかけなおす気配を
感じている
母の愛は
母が逝ってからもなお
寒い夜の私をあたために来る
白髪の
老いた母の 細い手
高田敏子(1914~89)
Un beau
matin
Il n’avait
peur de personne Il n’avait
peur de rien Mais un
matin un beau matin Il croit
voir quelque chose Mais il dit Ce n’est
rien Et il avait
raison Avec sa
raison sans nul doute Ce n’était
rien Mais le
matin ce même matin Il croit
entendre quelqu’un Et il ouvrit
la porte Et il la
referma en disant Personne Et il avait
raison Avec sa
raison sans nul doute Il n’y avait
personne Mais soudain
il eut peur Et il
comprit qu’il était seul Mais qu’il n’était
pas tout seul Et c’est
alors qu’il vit Rien en
personne devant lui. 杜甫 <江村> 清江一曲抱村流 qīng jiāng yì qǔ bào cūn liú 長夏江村事事幽 cháng xià jiāng cūn shì shì yōu 自去自來梁上燕 zì qù zì lái liáng shàng yàn 相親相近水中鷗 xiāng qīn xiān gjìn shuǐz hōng ōu 老妻畫紙爲棋局 lǎo qī huà zhǐ wéi qí jú 稚子敲針作釣鉤 zhì zǐ qiāo zhēn zuò diào gōu 多病所須唯藥物 duō bìng suǒ xū wéi yào wù 微軀此外更何求
wēi qū cǐ wài gèng hé qiú 袁枚 <所見> 牧童騎黃牛 mù tóng qí huáng niú 歌聲振林樾 gē shēng zhèn lín yuè 意欲捕鳴蟬 yì yù bǔ míng chán 忽然閉口立
hū rán bì kǒu lì Irving Feldman How wonderful to be understood,How Wonderful
to just sit here while some kind person
relieves you of the awful burden
of having to explain yourself, of having
to find other words to say what you meant,
or what you think you thought you meant,
and of the worse burden of finding no words,
of being struck dumb . . . because some bright person
has found just the right words for you—and you
have only to sit here and be grateful
for words so quiet so discerning they seem
not words but literate light, in which
your merely lucid blossoming grows lustrous.
How wonderful that is!
And how altogether wonderful it is
not to be understood, not at all, to, well,
just sit here while someone not unkindly
is saying those impossibly wrong things,
or quite possibly they're the right things
if you are, which you're not, that someone
—a difference, finally, so indifferent
it would be conceit not to let it pass,
unkindness, really, to spoil someone's fun.
And so you don't mind, you welcome the umbrage
of those high murmurings over your head,
having found, after all, you are grateful
—and you understand this, how wonderful!—
that you've been led to be quietly yourself,
like a root growing wise in darkness
under the light litter, the falling words.