Michael Zeleny (larvatus) wrote,
Michael Zeleny

the final love

Extending final felicitations of dearly departing 2005 to all my friends and readers.
        Ballade du dernier amour         Ballad of the Final Love
Mes souvenirs sont si nombreux
Que ma raison ny peut suffire.
Pourtant je ne vis que par eux,
Eux seuls me font pleurer et rire.
Le présent est sanglant et noir ;
Dans lavenir quai-je à poursuivre ?
Calme frais des tombeaux, le soir !...
Je me suis trop hâté de vivre.
My memories are so profuse,
My reason cannot measure up.
Yet I abide only through them,
Only they make me cry or laugh.
The present is bloodied and dark;
In the future, what's left to inspire?
Peaceful chill of the tomb, at night!...
I have hastened too much in living.
Amours heureux ou malheureux,
Lourds regrets, satiété pire,
Yeux noirs veloutés, clairs yeux bleus,
Aux regards quon ne peut pas dire,
Cheveux noyant le démêloir
Couleur dor, débène ou de cuivre,
Jai voulu tout voir, tout avoir.
Je me suis trop hâté de vivre.
All my loves requited or not,
Regrets encumber, surfeit overwhelms,
Velvety black eyes, limpid blue eyes,
Glancing in ways unfit for telling,
Tresses that submerge the comb
Of gold, of ebony, of copper,
I have sought to see all, to own all.
I have hastened too much in living.
Je suis las. Plus damour. Je veux
Vivre seul, pour moi seul décrire
Jusquà lodeur de tes cheveux,
Jusquà léclair de ton sourire,
Dire ton royal nonchaloir,
Tévoquer entière en un livre
Pur et vrai comme ton miroir.
Je me suis trop hâté de vivre.
I am worn. No more love. I want
To live apart, for myself to set forth
Your hair, to equal its fragrance,
Your smile, to equal its radiance,
To capture your regal aplomb,
To recall all of you in a book
Pure and true as your mirror.
I have hastened too much in living.
        Envoi         Envoy
Ma chanson, vapeur dencensoir,
Chère envolée, ira te suivre.
En tes bras jespérais pouvoir
Attendre lheure qui délivre ;
Tu mas pris mon tour. Au revoir.
Je me suis trop hâté de vivre.
My song, fumes of a censer,
Will trail you, my darling flown,
In your arms hopeful I would
Await the hour that delivers;
You have taken my turn. Goodbye.
I have hastened too much in living.
Charles Cros (1842-1888), Le Coffret de santal, 1873, in Charles Cros et Tristan Corbière, Œuvres complètes, Paris: Gallimard, 1970, pp. 105-106 ― translated by MZ
Tags: cros, love, poetry, translation

  • the joys of approximation

    In stark contrast to rightwing claims, 93% of demonstrations have involved no serious harm to people or property. — Lois Beckett, “ Nearly all Black…

  • the ethics of discrimination, part I

    In Politics III.9.1280a7–22, Aristotle agrees with the thought that equality is just, but points out that it is not so for everybody, but…

  • the founding fathers on spreading the wealth

    “The Description you give of the Company and Manner of living in Scotland, would almost tempt me to remove thither. Your Sentiments of the…

  • Post a new comment


    Anonymous comments are disabled in this journal

    default userpic

    Your reply will be screened

    Your IP address will be recorded