the lover's gift
t´ng vºt cða tÖnh yÅu

rabindranath tagore
bïi b¨o trîc dÙch

TrÏch mõéi ½o­n ½·u

You allowed your kingly power to vanish, Shah Jahan, but your wish was to make imperishable a tear-drop of love.
Time has no pity for the human heart, he laughs at its sad struggle to remember.
You allured him with beauty, made him captive, and crowned the formless death with fadeless form.
The secret whispered in the hush of night to the ear of your love is wrought in the perpetual silence of stone.
Though empires crumble to dust, and centuries are lost in shadows, the marble still sighs to the stars, "I remember."
"I remember." But life forgets, for she has her call to the Endless: and she goes on her voyage unburdened, leaving her memories to the forlorn forms of beauty.

‡­i ½Æ Jehan, ngõéi ½¬ m´c cho ½Æ quyËn sòp ½ä, nhõng õèc muân cða ngõéi l­i l¡ biÆn giàt lÎ tÖnh th¡nh thiÅn thu b¶t diÎt.

Théi gian thºt t¡n nh¹n vèi trŸi tim con ngõéi. Théi gian cõéi cìt nh­o bŸng trõèc nå lúc buãn n¨n ½Ì kh°c ghi ho¡i niÎm cða trŸi tim.

Ngõéi ½em th¸m mþ mÅ ho´c, giù l¶y théi gian, vinh th¯ng cŸi chÆt vá hÖnh b±ng mæt hÖnh thÌ ½éi ½éi kháng phai nh­t.

NiËm bÏ ¸n thÖ th·m bÅn tai ngõéi yÅu d¶u trong u tÙch cða bÜng ½Åm ½õìc t­c sµu v¡o sú cµm nÏn muán ½éi cða ½Ÿ.

Dï cho bao nhiÅu võçng quâc ½¬ ½ä nŸt, tan hoang cïng cŸt bòi, dï cho bao nhiÅu thÆ ký ½¬ m¶t theo bÜng ½Åm, c¸m th­ch v¹n ngºm ngïi thê d¡i, nÜi vèi nhùng vÖ sao, "Ta v¹n nhè".

"Ta v¹n nhè". Nhõng cuæc ½éi thÖ l¬ng quÅn, vÖ n¡ng ½¬ vË nçi Vá Tºn: n¡ng th¨nh thçi ra ½i trong chuyÆn viÍn h¡nh kháng võèng m°c, ½Ì l­i nhùng ký niÎm trong hÖnh thÌ cá ½çn cða th¸m mþ.

Come to my garden walk, my love. Pass by the fervid flowers that press themselves on your sight. Pass them by, stopping at some chance joy, which like a sudden wonder of sunset illumines, yet eludes.
For love's gift is shy, it never tells its name, it flits across the shade, spreading a shiver of joy along the dust. Overtake it or miss it for ever. But a gift that can be grasped is merely a frail flower, or a lamp with a flame that will flicker.

Hëi em yÅu quÏ, h¬y gh¾ bõèc l­i trÅn lâi ½i trong võén. H¬y ½Æn bÅn nhùng ½Üa hoa ½am mÅ ½ang n¾p v¡o nhau khi chìt th¶y bÜng em. H¬y bõèc tèi, h¬y d÷ng l­i ½µy ½Ü trong niËm vui chìt ½Æn, nhõ vÀ kü diÎu b¶t ngé cða ho¡ng hán, soi bÜng rúc rë m¡ cñng l¸n khu¶t kháng cïng.

VÖ t´ng vºt cða tÖnh yÅu thÖ e ¶p, thÂn thïng ch²ng bao gié muân ngõéi biÆt ½Æn tÅn, ch× chºp chén trong bÜng tâi, reo r°c chît h­nh phîc run r¸y dàc ½õéng bòi bºm. H¬y giù l¶y t´ng vºt ½Ü, nÆu kháng em sÁ m¬i m¬i m¶t luán. Nhõng t´ng vºt cÜ ½õìc trong tay ch× l¡ mæt lo¡i hoa mong manh, hay mæt ngàn ½¿n vèi Ÿnh løa leo l¾t muân lòi.

The fruits come in crowds into my orchard, they jostle each other. They surge up in the light in an anguish of fullness.
Proudly step into my orchard, my queen, sit there in the shade, pluck the ripe fruits from their stems, and let them yield, to the utmost, their burden of sweetness at your lips.
In my orchard the butterflies shake their wings in the sun, the leaves tremble, the fruits clamour to come to completion.

TrŸi cµy trong võén màc chi chÏt, chen chîc nhau trÅn c¡nh, võçn mÖnh ra phÏa Ÿnh sŸng trong nåi ½èn ½au tr¡n ½·y.

H¬y bõèc nhùng bõèc chµn kiÅu kü v¡o võén cµy, nù ho¡ng cða ta çi, h¬y ngãi xuâng dõèi bÜng mŸt, h¬y hŸi nhùng trŸi chÏn trÅn c¡nh, v¡ h¬y ½Ì chîng dµng lÅn ½ái mái cða ngõéi vÙ ngàt tuyÎt véi.

Trong võén cða ta, nhùng con bõèm tung ½ái cŸnh trong Ÿnh n°ng, nhùng chiÆc lŸ rung mÖnh, v¡ hoa trŸi ræn r¡ng ché ½Ün giµy phît ho¡n th¡nh.

She is near to my heart as the meadow flower to the earth; she is sweet to me as sleep is to tired limbs. My love for her is my life flowing in its fullness, like a river in autumn flood, running with serene abandonment. My songs are one with my love, like the murmur of a stream, that sings with all its waves and currents.

N¡ng ê c­nh tim tái nhõ hoa ½ãng cÞ næi kË bÅn m´t ½¶t; n¡ng dÙu d¡ng vèi tái nhõ gi¶c ngð ½Æn cïng tö chi r¬ réi mÎt mÞi. Mâi tÖnh cða tái d¡nh cho n¡ng l¡ cuæc sâng tæt ½×nh, ch¸y trái r­t r¡o, nhõ dÝng sáng trong cçn lñ mïa thu, cuân trái vèi t¶t c¨ sú buáng th¨ tr·m l´ng. Nhùng b¡i ca cða tái l¡ nhùng b¡i hŸt vèi n¡ng, nhõ tiÆng thÖ th·m cða suâi c¶t lÅn cïng vèi sÜng nõèc trÅn dÝng.

I would ask for still more, if I had the sky with all its stars, and the world with its endless riches; but I would be content with the smallest corner of this earth if only she were mine.

Tái v¹n cÝn ½Ýi hÞi nhiËu hçn, nÆu tái cÜ ½õìc hÆt b·u tréi v¡ t¶t c¨ tinh tî, cïng thÆ gièi vèi nhùng kho t¡ng vá tºn; nhõng tái sÁ m¬n nguyÎn vèi mæt xÜ gÜc nhÞ nh¶t cða trŸi ½¶t n¡y nÆu n¡ng l¡ cða riÅng tái.

In the light of this thriftless day of spring, my poet, sing of those who pass by and do not linger, who laugh as they run and never look back, who blossom in an hour of unreasoning delight, and fade in a moment without regret.
Do not sit down silently, to tell the beads of your past tears and smiles, do not stop to pick up the dropped petals from the flowers of overnight, do not go to seek things that evade you, to know the meaning that is not plain, leave the gaps in your life where they are , for the music to come out of their depths.

Trong Ÿnh sŸng tr¡n trË cða mæt ng¡y xuµn, thi nhµn çi, h¬y ngìi ca nhùng kÀ ½i ngang m¡ kháng bÙn rÙn bõèc chµn, nhùng kÀ v÷a c¶t lÅn tiÆng cõéi, v÷a r¨o bõèc, kháng mæt l·n ngÜ l­i, nhùng kiÆp ngõéi nê ræ b÷ng lÅn trong mæt gié vui b¶t ngé, ½Ì l­i tan ½i trong mæt kh°c, kháng mæt m¨y may hâi tiÆc.

‡÷ng ngãi l´ng thinh m¡ ½àc kinh cho nhùng giàt lÎ ng¡y xõa cïng nhùng nò cõéi cða ng¡y trõèc, ½÷ng ng÷ng l­i nh´t nhùng cŸnh hoa ròng ½Åm qua, ½÷ng kiÆm nhùng gÖ ½¬ vuæt ½i m¬i m¬i, hay tÖm hiÌu nhùng û nghØa quŸ xa véi, h¬y ½Ì m´c nhùng vúc sµu cða ½éi mÖnh ê ½Ü, vÖ µm nh­c sÁ vàng lÅn t÷ chÏnh nhùng ½Ÿy th²m.

It is little that remains now, the rest was spent in one careless summer. It is just enough to put in a song and sing to you; to weave in a flower-chain gently clasping your wrist; to hang in your ear like a round pink pearl, like a blushing whisper; to risk in a game one evening and utterly lose.
My boat is a frail small thing, not fit for crossing wild waves in the rain. If you but lightly step on it I shall gently row you by the shelter of the shore, where the dark water in ripples is like a dream-ruffled sleep; where the dove's cooing from the drooping branches makes the noon-day shadows plaintive. At the day's end, when you are tired, I shall pluck a dripping lily to put in your hair and take my leave.

Ch× cÝn sÜt l­i mæt chît n¡y, cÝn bao nhiÅu tái ½¬ phung phÏ hÆt trong mæt mïa h¿ phÜng ½¬ng. Ch× cÝn ½ð ½Ì phä v¡o khîc ca hŸt cho em nghe, ½Ì ½an v¡o vÝng hoa dÙu d¡ng ám l¶y cä tay em, ½Ì ½eo trÅn tai em nhõ mæt viÅn hãng ngàc, nhõ mæt léi th·m thÖ bÁn lÁn, ½Ì liËu lØnh trong canh b­c chiËu ½¬ c·m ch°c ph·n thua.

ThuyËn cða tái quŸ mong manh, e kháng võìt näi nhùng cçn sÜng dù cða trºn mõa. Nhõng nÆu em nh nh¡ng bõèc xuâng, tái sÁ ch¿o ½õa em men theo nhùng nçi trî ¸n bÅn bé, ê ½Ü, l¡n nõèc ½·y bÜng tâi gìn lÅn nhùng con sÜng nhÞ nhõ gi¶c ngð ½·y mæng mÙ, v¡ tiÆng gï cða nhùng con chim cµu ½ºu trÅn nhùng c¡nh lŸ rð la ½¡ cñng l¡m cho bÜng trõa hÜa th¡nh ¨o n¬o. Lîc cuâi ng¡y, tái sÁ hŸi mæt báng hoa sîng ½¹m nõèc, c¡i lÅn tÜc em rãi mèi ra ½i.

There is room for you. You are alone with your few sheaves of rice. My boat is crowded, it is heavily laden, but how can I turn you away? Your young body is slim and swaying; there is a twinkling smile in the edge of your eyes, and your robe is coloured like the rain-cloud.
The travellers will land for different roads and homes. You will sit for a while on the prow of my boat, and at the journey's end none will keep you back.
Where do you go, and to what home, to garner your sheaves? I will not question you, but when I fold my sails and moor my boat I shall sit and wonder in the evening -- Where do you go, and to what home, to garner your sheaves?

V¹n cÝn mæt chå cho em. Em, mæt mÖnh vèi v¡i bÜ lîa. ThuyËn chºt, chê ½¬ n´ng, nhõng l¡m sao tái cÜ thÌ t÷ châi em? DŸng em g·y yÆu, thõèt tha, l¶p lŸnh mæt nò cõéi trÅn khÜe m°t, t¡ Ÿo m·u nhõ nhùng ½Ÿm mµy n´ng sñng nõèc mõa.

KhŸch sÁ xuâng ê nhiËu bé bÆn khŸc nhau. Em sÁ ngãi l­i châc lŸt trÅn mñi thuyËn, v¡ khi chuyÆn ½i ch¶m döt, sÁ ch²ng ai giù em l­i.

Em ½i ½µu, em vË ½µu ½Ì ch¶t nhùng bÜ lîa n¡y? Tái sÁ kháng hÞi em nhõng khi cuæn buãm, neo thuyËn, tái sÁ ngãi th°c m°c suât ½Åm. Em ½i ½µu, em vË ½µu ½Ì ch¶t nhùng gi­ lîa n¡y?

Woman, your basket is heavy, your limbs are tired. For what distance have you set out, with what hunger of profit? The way is long, and the dust is hot in the sun.
See, the lake is deep and full, its water dark like a crow's eye. The banks are sloping and tender with grass.
Dip your tired feet into the water. The noontide wind will pass its fingers through your hair; the pigeons will croon their sleep songs, the leaves will murmur the secrets that nestle in the shadows.
What matters it if the hours pass and the sun sets; if the way through the desolate land be lost in the waning light?
Yonder is my house, by the hedge of flowering henna; I will guide you. I will make a bed for you, and light a lamp. In the morning, when the birds are roused by the stir of milking the cows, I will waken you.

Hëi thiÆu phò, giÞ ngõéi ½¬ ½·y, tö chi ½¬ mÎt rñ. Ngõéi cÝn ½i tèi bao xa, ngõéi cÝn khŸt khao tÖm kiÆm nhùng lìi læc gÖ? Con ½õéng thÖ d¡i v¡ cŸt bòi thÖ nÜng bÞng dõèi Ÿnh m´t tréi.

H¬y ngÜ xem, hã sµu ½·y nõèc, m¡ nõèc th¯m th²m ½en nhõ m°t chim á. Bé hã dâc cÞ xanh mËm m­i.

H¬y nhîng ½ái chµn mÎt mÞi v¡o dÝng nõèc. Cçn giÜ buäi trõa sÁ lïa nhùng ngÜn tay v¡o mŸi tÜc ngõéi; nhùng con chim cµu sÁ hŸt nh nhùng b¡i hŸt ru, nhùng chiÆc lŸ sÁ thÖ th·m niËm bÏ ¸n n±m sµu trong bÜng tâi.

CÜ hË gÖ, nÆu théi gian trái ½i, rãi v·ng dõçng l­i khu¶t; nÆu con ½õéng b¯ng qua miËn ½¶t hiu qu­nh biÆn ½i trong Ÿnh sŸng nh­t nhÝa?

Xa xa l¡ nh¡ ta, bÅn h¡ng giºu ½·y hoa henna, ta sÁ ½õa ngõéi vË ½Ü. Ta sÁ dàn chå ngð cho ngõéi , th°p lÅn mæt ngàn ½¿n. Rãi buäi sŸng, khi b·y chim thöc gi¶c vÖ tiÆng lao xao cða b·y bÝ sùa, ta sÁ ½Ÿnh thöc ngõéi.

What is that drives these bees from their home; these followers of unseen trails? What cry is this in their eager wings? How can they hear the music that sleeps in the flower soul? How can they find their way to the chamber where the honey lies shy and silent?

‡iËu gÖ ½¬ khiÆn b·y ong réi tä, bay men theo nhùng lâi vá hÖnh? TiÆng gài n¡o trong nhùng ½ái cŸnh vå cuãng nhiÎt ¶y? L¡m thÆ n¡o chîng nghe ½õìc ½iÎu nh­c ngð giùa hãn cða lo¡i hoa? L¡m thÆ n¡o chîng tÖm ½õìc lâi d¹n v¡o nçi mºt hoa n±m thÂn thïng, cµm nÏn?

rabindranath tagore
bïi b¨o trîc dÙch