Thursday, August 6, 2015

False Dawn/Alba Falsa by Joan Bodon [EN/Occitan]



Translated by A.Z. Foreman

A false dawn creeps up on the hills. Who knows
If the bird's cry will hail the morning on? 
Soon there will be a stir of beds and clothes,
A priest will sing his Latin all alone.

The little girl in white who weeps for dawn...
Look at her, friend, at the path's edge in dread.
Why this mulberry pick against her heart?
Spilt blood has stained the whitethorn flower red. 

Down from the heavens this new dawn unfurls:
Flesh in decay under a linen sheet. 
A votive candle of death burns in the chapel:
A lark moving its wings...in one last beat.


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in original Occitan


Una alba falsa se trigòssa suls puèges.
Qual sap se l'aucèl cridarà lo matin?
Començaràn lèu los saquejals dels lièches,
Tot sol un rector va cantar son latin...

La filha blanca que de l’alba se plora,
Vei-la, mon amic, a la broa del camin.
Mas perqué sul seu còr aquel picon d’amora?
Lo sang a techat sus la flor d’albespin.

Davala del cèl aquela alba novèla,
La carn se blasís jos la tela de lin.
Un ciri de mòrt crèma dins la capèla:
Lauseta que mòu sas alas... A la fin...

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