A keresés eredménye

A Great Black Slumber

A great black slumber
Buries my life:
Sleep, all hopes!
Sleep, all desires!
 
I see nothing more,
I’ve lost the memory
Of good and of evil...
O the sad story!
 
I am a cradle
That a hand rocks
In the hollow of a vault:
Silence, silence!
 

A hold a fák közt

Versions: #1
A hold a fák közt
szikrázva süt

Delightful time

The whitish Moon
Gleams in the Woods
From every branch
Goes off a Voice
Under the boughs
 
O my darling
 
The pond reflects,
Mirror so deep,
A silhouette:
the black Willow's,
Where the wind weeps
 
Let's dream, it's Time !
 
A vast and sweet
Softening peace
Seems to go down
From the welkin
Tinged by the moon
 
It's delightful time.
 

In the moonlight

Versions: #3
Your soul is a well-chosen landscape
Where roam charming masks and bergamasques
Playing the lute and dancing and seeming almost
Sad under their whimsical disguises.
 
While singing in a minor key
Of victorious love and good life
They don't seem to believe in their own happiness
And their song mingles with the moonlight,
 
With the sad and beautiful moonlight,
That makes the birds in the trees dream
And sob with ecstasy the water streams,
The tall slim water streams among the marbles.
 
My own translations are protected by copyrights. Commercial use only with my written permission, private use free if the author is mentioned.

Nevermore

Memory, memory, what do you want of me? Autumn
Makes the thrush fly through colourless air,
And the sun casts its monotonous glare
On the yellowing woods where the north winds hum.
 
We were alone, and walking in dream,
She and I, hair and thoughts wind-blown.
Then, turning her troubling gaze on me,
‘Your loveliest day?’ in her voice of fine gold,
 
Her voice, with its angel’s tone, fresh, vibrant, sweet.
I gave her my answer, a smile so discreet,
And kissed her white hand with devotion.
 
– Ah! The first flowers, what a fragrance they have!
And how charming the murmured emotion
Of a first ‘yes’ let slip from lips that we love!
 

To Charles Baudelaire

I did not know you, I did not love you,
I do not know you and love you even less:
It'll do me ill to burden myself with your libeled name,
and the reason why I might still stand among your witnesses
 
is firstly that, in some other place, you fell and prayed
at those Feet joined first by cold nails, and then
by the swooned urge of sinful women who kissed them
hungrily and anointed them with mad tears.
 
You fell and prayed, like me, like all the souls
driven to the roads by hunger and thirst
that hope would embellish as they hit the Calvary!
 
A just and true Calvary, a Calvary where these doubts,
various grimaces and art, all weep over their debacle.
How come we sinful men could just die?
 
This translation does not claim to be of any particular value.
Glad if you liked it, sorry if you didn't.
You can reuse it as you please.
Glad if it's for knowledge or understanding, sorry if it's just for money or fame.

Cupid toppled

The wind from the other night toppled the Cupid
that, in the most mysterious corner of the park,
smiled as he mischieviously drew its bow,
the very cupid whose figure we spent a day musing about.
 
The wind from the other night toppled it down!
The marmor whirls, scattered in the morning wind.
How sad to see the pedestal, on which the artist's name
can laboriously be read amidst a tree shadow,
 
so sad to see the pedestal standing
all alone! And gloomy thougts pace back
and forth in my dream where deep sorrow
alludes to a lonesome and fateful future.
 
How very sad! Surely you must be moved too?
Moved by such a painful scene, although your dizzy eye
amuses itself with a purple and gold butterfly fluttering
above the rubble scattered across the alley.
 
This translation does not claim to be of any particular value.
Glad if you liked it, sorry if you didn't.
You can reuse it as you please.
Glad if it's for knowledge or understanding, sorry if it's just for money or fame.

I still see you

Versions: #3
I still see you! In a summer dress
white and yellow with curtain's flowers.
But you didn't have anymore the wet cheerfulness
Of the most delirious of our short futures.
 
The small bride and the elder girl
Had reappeared with the clothes
And it was already our fate
That looked at me under your veil
 
Be forgiven! And it's the reason why,
I keep, alas! with some pride,
In my memory, which cuddled you,
the side lightning that flew from your eye.
 
All of my work is dedicated to Ms Z. G., who is the real counterpart of Beatrice Portinari for me.

Setting suns

A weakened dawn
Scatters onto the fields
The melancholy
Of the setting suns
 
The melancholy
Rocks of a sweet song
My heart which forgets itself
To the setting suns
 
And peculiar dreams
Like suns
Setting, on the strands,
Vermilion ghosts,
 
Parade relentlessly
Parade, alike
To big suns
Setting on the strands.
 
All of my work is dedicated to Ms Z. G., who is the real counterpart of Beatrice Portinari for me.

Hope shines like a wisp of straw in the stable

Hope shines like a wisp of straw in the stable
What do you fear of the drunken wasp of its mad flight?
See, the sun always rises in clouds in some hole.
Why didn't you fall asleep, elbow on the table?
 
Poor pale soul, at least this water from the well frozen
Drink it. Then sleep afterward. There, see, I'm staying,
And I'd would pamper the dreams of your nap
And you would hum like a cradled child
 
Noon strikes. For goodness' sake, go away madam.
He's asleep. It's surprising how women's steps
Resonates to the pour souls' brain.
 
Noon strikes. I had (the plants) watered in the bedroom.
Go, sleep! Hope shines like a stone in a cavity.
Ah, when the september's roses will blossom again !
 
All of my work is dedicated to Ms Z. G., who is the real counterpart of Beatrice Portinari for me.

My familiar dream

Versions: #3
I often make that strange and penetrating dream
Of an unknown woman and whom I love and who loves me
And who is, everytime, not entirely the same
Nor quite another and who loves me and understands me
 
Because she understands me and my transparent heart
For her alone, alas!, stops being a problem.
For her alone, and the sweatineness' of my pallid forehead
Her only knows how to refresh them by crying.
 
Is she brown haired, blond or redhaired? I don't know.
Her name? I remember it's sweet and resonant,
Like the ones of the loved ones who life exiled.
 
Her gaze is alike to the gaze of the statues
And, for her voice, distant, and calm, and deep, it has
the inflexion of the dearest voice who went silent.
 
All of my work is dedicated to Ms Z. G., who is the real counterpart of Beatrice Portinari for me.

Green

These are fruits, flowers, leaves and branches
And then this is my heart that beats only for you
Do not tear it apart with your two white hands
And that for your beautiful eyes (for you) this humble gift would be sweet
 
I show up covered with dew
That the morning's wind freezes on my forehead
Be in pain that my tiredness, at your feet, well-rested
Dreams of the dear moments that will relaxe it
 
On your fresh breast let me roll about my head
Still sound with your last kisses
Let il recover from this whirlwind
And that I could sleep a bit as you are resting
 
FranceA

The Fall Song by Paul Verlaine

Versions: #3
'the Fall Song' by Paul Verlaine
 
violins' songs
prolong
the fall, in a tone,
hit my heart in a strong,
long
monotone.
 
I'm short of air,
pale in time's care,
when, in a while,
I do retain
the ancient days,
and I cry.
 
and, I will go,
when the winds blow,
I'll be tossed,
to and fro,
as though
a leaf lost.
 
Translation from French by Ivan Petryshyn, U-A