Some years ago I translated Thomas Bernhard's poem Unter dem Eisen des Mondes on Poet-in-Residence.
Here are some of the lines:
we mow and bleat and know nothing of winter,
we drink our cider and know nothing,
and soon we'll be forgotten
and the verses decayed like snow before the house
. . .
we sleep while our dirty shoes
moulder before the door of the house.
. . .
The year is like the year a thousand years ago,
we know nothing,
we know nothing of the end,
of the sunken towns, of the flood in which the horses
and people were drowned.
|Owed to joy?|