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

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.


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