What constitutes an adequate translation?
The thing that works in one language, is not necessarily transferable into another.
One must feel the ring of the language.
This poem started out as a blog post written in Suva, Fiji. Its second incarnation saw it as a poem written in Finnish. This text is yet another variation; not the same as the ones in Finnish but not completely different, either.
THE GREAT WHITE FIJI POEM Cigarette smoke the gray clouds spreading in the lungs of space, the living stars, the far-off drops of joy, the hair of palm trees, and on the planet’s surface, en route from one country to another, in the air, in the stratosphere of the sky, the wind of thought, dancing in the brushes of the courtyard, shaking the limp sheet on the line, as a man awakening to life, some future shape you can’t quite put your finger on, it hides in the darkness, in the night, and you stare into the stars of the black space, the sleep changed into serious words, the dogs in the distance, beyond sleep, and wakefulness, the wise sentences, the sentinel against the unknown, the old mongrel of the old Ulysses, you will never return home, you are condemned on the road, a jew, your eyes like two stars shining, a murderer of an albatross, you cannot come back home again, you fly, you flit, the time racing forward, slowing down, the joy of the stars penetrating the thick mass of clouds, it starts to rain, the sound of raindrops on the wooden window sill, the night is nearly bored through, the first occupants of the house woken unperceived, you still sitting on the wooden bench in the backyard of the great white house, listening to a toilet hush, a shower being turned on, the whole planet on the threshold of day, the wet sheet on the line, an actor’s cape, this play is over, the encores called, the life started.