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God + Dumnezeu - Bogdan Petriceicu Haşdeu
God - Bogdan Petriceicu Haşdeu
I would like to tear out of me a song, just one,
A single one from the end: a late child
That is not yet born, but, nevertheless, full of life,
The tender mother feels it under her heart throbbing.
A song, just one, now in gray hair,
Like Prince Charming from the fairy tale with "once upon a time there was an old man".
The old man is hunched over, but the son is as big as a mountain
He will tell the astonished world: I was born from him.
A song, just one… When the sun sets
To another land to pass, the eternal traveler
He pours more burning lights on the earth
And leaves, and rest lies on the ground.
A song, just one! But the coquettish rhyme
Runs after the young, and I cannot catch her;
And when, mischievous, she approaches me,
She carves my thought, coming out a little smaller.
Oh, spoiled rhyme! Do you think that without you
The old man is unable to carve out of granite
A song that never perishes, a hymn hated for centuries,
The cyclopean wall that lasted without cement?
A rhyme, what is that? It's a parade coat
With a card of decorations enameled and polished,
Under which everyone in turn seems to you to be appropriate,
Often even the dwarf sways grandly.
Rhyme is not poetry. Homer and Anacreon,
Virgil and Horace did not stay to forge
On "Tisa — it cried to me...", sonorous rhymes
On a mole meant to change it into an elephant.
Artistic is the tercet of Dante's poems,
But not for Dante. Giant with bells!
His Divine Comedy would be even more divine
If it lacked these earthly scumbags.
Shakespeare, the great Shakespeare, the incomparable Shakespeare,
Whose genius absorbs the whole human race
As you see the crystal of a prism absorbing light,
Shakespeare, when how much rhyme, alas! Shakespeare is no more.
Are you running away from me? Be it! I thank you. Once
You also ran away from Milton the blind and persecuted,
And then, from impotence creating a power for himself,
He wrote the sublime Paradise without rhyme.
Yes, I liked you too in the past.
When I used to look at your verses, like village girls
Looking at a flower bud while mowing,
At least without the benghiu the beautiful is more beautiful.
The carnation is lovely with its tender, tender petals
Of red and yellow, pieces of velvet;
The butterfly is lovely, the flying carnation,
Velvety and it, and it is ephemeral;
But the carnation is not the fir tree, nor the eagle flutters it
They do not need red and yellow and variegated:
By its size alone, the great rises;
The small one is embarrassed, because it is dwarfed…
A song, just one and the last,
I would like to tear it from me… But where is it? I do not embroider it;
Now I feel it here, and I already feel it far away,
And I feel it as if it is everywhere, and I feel that I always feel it.
I give birth to a thought, and it takes off,
Nothing stops it in space or time;
Mine is and it seems another, because it is boundless;
Mine is, and it is infinite, floating in the universe,
It is infinite in me, not the man of flesh,
Not the infinite, but my thought:
The restless artist who plays incessantly
On the keys in my brain, singing like on a piano.
And the dull keys are renewed, they change;
Not one remains in its place after a year;
But I am still the same through everything I had thought,
Through everything I will think on new or old keys.
The piano, when it breaks, I force myself to fix it
Because I have gotten used to it, it is dear to me, I have become accustomed to it
When it no longer tunes, I smash it with anger,
Or without resentment I leave it and go away.
And my thought departs to play some other keys
On another keyboard…
Poet! step more slowly!
Do not suddenly reveal the altar of immortality:
The light stuns the bewildered.
In me is the infinite!… But I and the Hottentot
A Caesar, a Plato, a Kant and an Eskimo
We are the same beast: in the cruelest savage
Something boundless may be hidden in thought.
When I weave these stanzas, I feel that next to me
A scapegoat, a spark with the face of Darwin,
Hovering over my head, whispering: “man bites!
What is a bite? What is a grass? And what is a boulder?…”
And it disappeared; and his voice, echoing around me,
Inverted words bring me: “bite him, man!
From flint a plant, from plant an animal,
From man an angel is born, from angel a Jesus…!”
And immersed in thoughts, looking with confusion
A stone at my feet rolled down,
I took it in my palm to smooth it with pity,
Saying to it: right in you is a point from infinity!
The world begins with a point. A point has no dimensions,
Nothing is more formless and more intangible;
But set it in motion, and the line stretches,
And the line gives you everything: therefore, everything is in a point.
Nature, firmaments, solar systems,
With all that is in them and among them,
The concept slowly develops from moving points,
From moving points starting from God.
Starting from God, they are also infinite:
A point is not measured, being unbounded;
Starting from the strongest Force, they are also strong:
A point builds the sphere, because it is its center.
The mind does not understand it, it cannot comprehend it,
So great is it and it seems to it-so small:
The miracle without which it would never understand
Everything that is based on this incomprehensible!
Thus in every science the source of poetry.
The chemist and the astronomer ride the sphinx,
Pushed through myriads of infinite small
Which lead them to the infinite
the great one: God.
And what gave birth to those myriads,
And what ties them to the infinite One,
And what draws them together,
The supreme law is the law of love!…
A song, only one and the last,
Wanting to tear it from me, I threw it into the sky;
From the sky my thought crushes it in my brain,
But it is not whole: the end remained in the sky wandering.
And my thought cries, longing for humility:
“Until the end,” it tells me, “there is no way to root myself;
Only ecstasy alone rises so high;
The ecstasy, which binds a man to God!”
Ecstasy…. what is ecstasy? A secular moment,
In which you see so many lives and living,
That it seems like a century, you don't want to believe it, and yet
Science is forced to murmur: that's right!
When a man falls into the water and is about to drown—
Passing in the panorama before him
His whole life, his whole life in detail
He feels it in that moment, a moment, no more.
When a doctor puts a sick person to sleep to cut him up,
He chops up his body, only his soul in ecstasy
He knows no pain, he parties, sings, plays,
He lives for a moment, a moment, no more.
Ecstasy has nothing to do with the keys in the brain,
Although the piano resounds, telling him what he felt:
A long story, words and words,
At least it was a moment, a moment, no more.
Ecstasy is taking me away. I hear the Divinity:
“You ask Me: what am I? love. You ask Me: what do I do? I love.
If I did not weave, on whom would I pour out My love?
To love, You tear Me apart, weaving worlds from Me!
Everything that I weave from My breast is a weaver in its turn.
Starting from Me, it is a microcosmic I,
Which I gave birth to grow in full freedom:
To be reborn alone, higher and higher again.
A germ of will moves even in the stone.
It is asleep, it is lazy; a shadow of an impulse;
But when it wakes up again, the muscle penetrates the stone,
And from the muscle to the Spirit — the ladder stretches in time.
The stronger, the more refined the will is,
The sooner it is reached,
Because every point turns on its own My breast: let it be added
In the necklace of stars a new pearl.
Even a stone is dear to Me; but an archangel! He
From the muscles, through the sufferings of endless centuries,
Re-entered Me again, the love multiplied
From all that he had loved in hundreds of lives!
So many fathers and mothers! so many sons and daughters,
Sisters and brothers and wives and relatives and friends:
Loves for him lived, lived and remained
An ocean within him, loved and loving!
May these oceans keep unclogging in Me.
You ask yourself: what am I? love. You ask yourself: what do I do? do I love
If I did not weave, on whom would I pour out My love?
In order to love, You tear Me apart, weaving worlds from Me!
The Archangels, from My bosom you set off like these points
For thousands and thousands of centuries, then filtered one by one
Through stones and plants, through animals, through people
When they return to Me, triumphant athletes,
That ray of love, received at departure,
More and more vividly becomes the rainbow,
Its turmoil, it boils, it makes it weave,
And I: from the nebulae I let them sift suns!
And when a humanity on one of the planets,
Fall in despair, Calls out to Me for help,
Among the archangels, one, like the Messiah, soars,
Sacrificing himself to save innocent sheep!
And his sacrifice offers me loving fragrances….
You ask me: what am I? love. You ask me: what do I do? do I love,
If I didn't weave, on whom would I pour out My love?
To love, You tore Me apart, weaving worlds from Me…”
And when He spoke, the Word, casting those points,
He spread them from His breath, and each point
Took a figure, a mold, a form:
Matter coagulates having a force in it….
The ecstasy ceases. The poet wakes up.
He feels brighter: both in him and around him.
Fragments of memory settle in his brain,
And thought, to spin, seizes the new thread.
Matter and force! From the supreme Force
Which is only force, one, a monad without shore,
Whatever unfolds, whatever is directed,
Remains force, but as an individual garment.
And the garment transforms. Through evolutionary lives
Gradually thins, becomes transparent,
Untouchable, elastic, interwoven with force,
A whose shell is: a molecular body.
The naturalist, who from bottom to top learns,
Matter dreams in the entire universe.
From top to bottom he looks with pride at the philosopher,
And it seems to him only force. Both are mistaken.
The poet alone knows, the ecstatic through which
The sky smiles below, the earth weeps above;
And he, the frail harp, vibrates at the same time
With God-love and with love-man…
A song, only one and the last,
Wanting to tear it from me, I throw it into the sky;
And to catch the fugitive, I flew after him:
I saw eternity… Why did I return?
Why? Because each one is given a message.
My apostolate still has its target.
Patience, and onward! When I come to the end,
Let me sing with the seraphim:
Oh, God!
Bogdan Petriceicu Haşdeu
Monday, May 5, 2025
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