the fly by william blake

 

i did this way back, in my student years, because the translation that was, was so effeminate that it lost the brisk efficiency of the game of life and death, and the moment of awareness of both. so here it goes – in eng and in lv.

Little Fly, Thy summer’s play My thoughtless hand Has brushed away. Am not I A fly like thee? Or art not thou A man like me? For I dance And drink, and sing, Till some blind hand Shall brush my wing. If thought is life And strength and breath And the want Of thought is death; Then am I A happy fly, If I live, Or if I die.

Sīkais ods, Tavu deju Neapdomīgs Iznīdēju. Vai ne es gan ods kā tu? Vai kā vīrs Tu nebūtu? Jo es dzeŗu, Dziedu, skanu, Līdz kāds aklais Izdzēš mani. Ja viss vien māns- Ir elpa, dzīve, Ja vien doma Tiešām brīva – Būšu vien Es laimīgs ods: Dzīvi man Vai nāvi dod.