Friday, July 16, 2021

On Living by Nazim Hikmet

On Living


Living is no laughing matter:
          you must live with great seriousness
               like a squirrel, for example—
     I mean, without looking for something beyond and above living,
          I mean living must be your whole life.
Living is no laughing matter:
          you must take it seriously,
          so much so and to such a degree
     that, for example, your hands tied behind your back,
                              your back to the wall,
or else in a laboratory
     in your white coat and safety glasses,
     you can die for people—
even for people you’ve never seen,
even though you know living
     is the most real, the most beautiful thing.
I mean, you must take living so seriously
     that even at seventy, for example, you’ll plant olive trees—
     and not for your children, either,
     but because although you fear death you don’t believe it,
     because living, I mean, weighs heavier.

Let’s say we’re seriously ill, need surgery—
which is to say we might not get up
               from the white table.
Even though it’s impossible not to feel sad
               about going a little too soon,
we’ll still laugh at the jokes being told,
we’ll look out the window to see if it’s raining,
or still wait anxiously
               for the latest newscast . . .
Let’s say we’re at the front—
          for something worth fighting for, say.
There, in the first offensive, on that very day,
          we might fall on our face, dead.
We’ll know this with a curious anger,
     but we’ll still worry ourselves to death
     about the outcome of the war, which could last years.
Let’s say we’re in prison
and close to fifty,
and we have eighteen more years, say,
               before the iron doors will open.
We’ll still live with the outside,
with its people and animals, struggle and wind—
               I mean with the outside beyond the walls.
I mean, however and wherever we are,
     we must live as if we will never die.

This earth will grow cold,
a star among stars,
          and one of the smallest,
a gilded mote on blue velvet—
          I mean this, our great earth.
This earth will grow cold one day,
not like a block of ice
or a dead cloud even
but like an empty walnut it will roll along
          in pitch-black space . . .
You must grieve for this right now
—you have to feel this sorrow now—
for the world must be loved this much
                    if you’re going to say “I lived” . . .
(Translated by Randy Blasing and Mutlu Konuk)

No comments:

Post a Comment

Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.