Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Hasso Krull

Zhuangzi invites butterflies into his deathbed

Zhuangzi invites butterflies into his deathbed.
And they come. Though it is broad daylight,
moths and loopers come too,
swarms of them buzz gloomily,

whirl around the teacher. He speaks:
“Today I dreamed
I was the master of butterflies. I taught them all,
large and small, light and dark,

furry and spotted. My lessons
had influence. They all awakened. The butterflies
woke and saw that they were butterflies . . .”
But night has already fallen.

Oh this beating around the lamp.
Light wings in milk. The shining powder of wings
on the worn table, people’s voices, eyes,
the crackling of ancestors’ bonfires.

Zhuangzi roept de vlinders op naar zijn doodsbed

Zhuangzi roept de vlinders op naar zijn doodsbed.
Ze komen ook. Al is het op klaarlichte dag,
ze komen toch, de nachtvlinders, de bessenvlinders,
zelfs de snorrende kolibrievlinders
 
dartelen om hun leraar heen. Die zegt:
‘Vandaag droomde ik
dat ik een vlinderleraar was. Ik gaf hun allemaal les,
de grote en de kleine, de lichte en de donkere,
 
de bonte en zelfs de harige. Mijn lessen
werkten. Allen ontwaakten. De vlinders
ontwaakten en zagen dat ze vlinders waren…’
Maar de nacht viel in.
 
O, die tikken om de lamp heen.
Lichte vleugeltjes in de melk. Schitterend vleugelstof
op de afgesleten tafel, mensenstemmen, -ogen,
het geknetter van een voorouderlijk vuur.

Zhuangzi kutsub oma surivoodile liblikad.
Need tulevad tõesti. Kuigi on päine päev,
tulevad ometi ka öölased, vaksikud,
isegi kumedalt põrisevad surud

tiirutavad õpetaja ümber. See räägib:
„Täna nägin ma unes,
et ma olin liblikate õpetaja. Õpetasin kõiki,
suuri ja väikesi, heledaid ja tumedaid,

kirjusid ja karvaseidki. Minu õpetus
mõjus. Nad kõik ärkasid üles. Liblikad
ärkasid ja nägid, et on liblikad . . .”
Aga juba ongi öö kätte jõudnud.

Oi seda pekslemist lambi ümber.
Heledaid tiibu piimas. Säravat tiivatolmu
kulunud laual, inimeste hääli, silmi,
esivanemate lõkke praksumist.
Close

Zhuangzi invites butterflies into his deathbed

Zhuangzi invites butterflies into his deathbed.
And they come. Though it is broad daylight,
moths and loopers come too,
swarms of them buzz gloomily,

whirl around the teacher. He speaks:
“Today I dreamed
I was the master of butterflies. I taught them all,
large and small, light and dark,

furry and spotted. My lessons
had influence. They all awakened. The butterflies
woke and saw that they were butterflies . . .”
But night has already fallen.

Oh this beating around the lamp.
Light wings in milk. The shining powder of wings
on the worn table, people’s voices, eyes,
the crackling of ancestors’ bonfires.

Zhuangzi invites butterflies into his deathbed

Zhuangzi invites butterflies into his deathbed.
And they come. Though it is broad daylight,
moths and loopers come too,
swarms of them buzz gloomily,

whirl around the teacher. He speaks:
“Today I dreamed
I was the master of butterflies. I taught them all,
large and small, light and dark,

furry and spotted. My lessons
had influence. They all awakened. The butterflies
woke and saw that they were butterflies . . .”
But night has already fallen.

Oh this beating around the lamp.
Light wings in milk. The shining powder of wings
on the worn table, people’s voices, eyes,
the crackling of ancestors’ bonfires.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère