Emily Dickinson, 340

 
Ik fielde in Utfeart, yn myn Brein,
En hinne en wer bleau Dragersfolk
Mar trêdzjen - trêdzjen - oant it wie
As bruts Betsjutting troch -

En doe’t elkien in sitplak hie,
Bleau - as in Tromme - in Gesang
Mar droanen - droanen - oant Ik tocht,
No giet myn geast yn trance -

En ’k hearde hoe’t in Kiste tild
Waard, hoe’t se kriezen oer myn Siel,
Wer mei dyselde Leaden Skuon,
Oant Romte - lieden gie,

As wie it Utspansel in Klok,
En Wêzen oars net as in Ear,
En Ik, en Stilte, in frjemd Ras
Hjir oanspield, solitêr -

En doe wie der yn Rede in Skut
Dat bruts, en Ik sonk del, en del -
En rekke in Wrâld, by elke skok,
En Makke witten - dien -

 

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,
And Mourners to and fro
Kept treading - treading - till it seemed
That Sense was breaking through -

And when they all were seated,
A Service, like a Drum -
Kept beating - beating - till I thought
My mind was going numb -

And then I heard them lift a Box
And creak across my Soul
With those same Boots of Lead, again,
Then Space - began to toll,

As all the Heavens were a Bell,
And Being, but an Ear,
And I, and Silence, some strange Race
Wrecked, solitary, here -

And then a Plank in Reason, broke,
And I dropped down, and down -
And hit a World, at every plunge,
And Finished knowing - then -

 

F340 (J280). In eardere ferzje yn Emily Dickinson, Wetter, wurdt jin leard troch toarst. Twaentweintich fersen oerset troch Klaas van der Hoek, Zoeterwoude 1999, s. 19. YouTube: Roger Gregg, Nicola Vann, ‘Funeral In My Brain’, 2013.

 

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