Wednesday, July 29, 2015

The Prisoner/El Presoner By Jordi de Sant Jord [EN/Catalan]

Deprived of friends, of lord, of good and fief
A foreign stranger in strange foreign lands,
Afar from all good things, fatigued with grief,
My thought and will detained in hostile hands,
I find myself a wicked power's prey
And see none who show care to me in shame.  
I'm under guard, cramped, chained, kept locked away
With nothing save my sorry luck to blame.

I who've seen times when naught pleased me on earth,
Must be content with this my source of tears, 
Finding in lighter manacles more worth
Than beautiful brocades of bygone years,
And I see Fortune's force has raised her banner
On me, that I should fall in such degree.  
But I care not, since I have served with honor
With all the good men in my company. 

For I'm consoled that I fell prisoner
In service to my lord with all my might,
Defeated by superior force in war 
And not by lack of valor as a knight,
I'm consoled that I made their victory
Cost so excruciating an expense,
Yet wish to die of sorrow when I see
The world so reconciled with the offense.  

My other woes cause nothing of dismay 
Next to the one that so dements the heart
And drives me to abandon hope each day:
I have seen nothing yet to help us start
Making arrangements for our liberation,
And as I think upon the ransom pay
Sforza demands, with no negotiation,
My virtue and my strength slowly decay. 

Therefore now nothing that I know or see
Can give me valor against fear of death,
Save God Himself, my rock of verity,
Who fortifies the heart that keeps His faith,
And King Alfons our generous Sovereign
Who will come to my aid with noble hand
And from the evil he has placed us in
Deliver me, who serve at his command.


Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Deserts d'amics, de béns e de senyor,

en estrany lloc i en estranya contrada,
lluny de tot bé, fart d'enuig e tristor,
ma voluntad e pensa caitivada,
me trob del tot en mal poder sotsmès
no vei algú que de mi s'haja cura,
e soi guardats, enclòs, ferrats e pres,
de què·n fau grat a ma trista ventura.

Eu hai vist temps que no·m plasia res,
ara·m content de çò qui·m fai tristura,
e los grillons lleugers ara preu més
que en temps passat la bella brodadura.
Fortuna vei qu'ha mostrat son poder
sus mé, volent que·n tal punt vengut sia,
però no·m cur, pus hai fait mon dever
amb tots los bons que·m trob en companyia.

Car prenc conhort de com soi presoner
per mon senyor servint tant com podia,
d'armes sobrat e per major poder,
no per defaut gens de cavalleria.
E prenc conhort qu'hom no poc conquerir
honor en res sens que treball no senta,
mas d'altra part cuid de tristor morir
com vei que·l món dels revers se contenta.

Tots aquests mals no·m són res de sofrir
en esguard d'u qui al cor me destenta
e·m fai tot jorn d'esperança partir,
com no vei res que·ns avanç d'una 'spenta
en acunçar nostre deslliurament,
e més com vei ço que·ns demana Sforça
que no sofir algú raonament,
de què llangueix ma virtut e ma força.

Perqué no sai ni vei res al present
que·m puixa dar en valor d'una 'scorça,
mas Déu tot sol, de qui prenc fundament
e de qui fiu, e·b qui mon cor s'esforça;
e d'altra part, del bon rei liberal
qui·m socorrà per gentilesa granda,
lo qui·ns ha mès del tot en aquest mal,
que·ll me·n traurà, car soi jus sa comanda.

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