LO JORN HA POR DE PERDRE SA
CLAROR ...
THE DAY'S IN DREAD OF LOSING HER
BRIGHT FEATURES ...
Ausiàs Marchtrans. John Frederick Nims (from Catalan)
Lo jorn ha por.....de perdre sa claror
quant ve la nit.....qu· espandeix ses tenebres;
pochs animals.....no cloen les palpebres,
e los malalts.....crexen de llur dolor.
Los malfactors.....volgren tot l'any duràs
perquè llurs mals.....haguessen cobriment,
mas yo qui visch.....menys de par, en turment
e sens mal fer,.....volgra que tost passàs.

E d'altra part.....faç pus que si matàs
mil hòmens justs,.....menys d'alguna mercè,
car tots mos ginys.....yo solt per trahir-me;
e no cuydeu.....que·l jorn me'n escusàs,
ans en la nit.....treball rompent ma penssa
perqué ·n lo jorn.....lo trahiment cometa;
por de morir.....ne de fer vida streta
no·m toll esforç.....per donar-me offensa.

Plena de seny,.....mon enteniment pensa
com abtament.....lo laç d'Amor se meta;
sens aturar,.....pas tenint via dreta;
vaig a la fi.....si mercè no·m deffensa.
The day's in dread of losing her bright features
when night arrives, unloosener of gloom.
Few living things but shut the eye in slumber;
patients at midnight ebbing, sniff the tomb.
But burglars urge that night to last the year out,
having, with her, security in crime.
I pitch and toss, no other so tormented;
working no wrong, I long for dawn to climb.

No wrong. And yet do worse than if I murdered
a thousand innocent men - no reason why.
Traps that I set at night recoil against me;
little relief with morning in the sky.
No, in the night I rack my brain devising
ways of betrayal set for all day long.
No dread of death nor fear of a lean future
softens my rage to do myself a wrong.

O Soul-Of-Thought: here's theme for meditation:
how snugly love adjusts the hangman's noose.
See how I march, eyes straight, to my destruction.
No hope, unless your mercy work me loose.

Trans. Copyright © Mrs. Bonnie Nims 1971 - publ. Rutgers University Press


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