Le vent
Sur la bruyère longue infiniment,
Voici le vent cornant Novembre ;
Sur la bruyère, infiniment,
Voici le vent
Qui se déchire et se démembre,
En souffles lourds, battant les bourgs ;
Voici le vent,
Le vent sauvage de Novembre.
Aux puits des fermes,
Les seaux de fer et les poulies
Grincent ;
Aux citernes des fermes.
Les seaux et les poulies
Grincent et crient
Toute la mort, dans leurs mélancolies.
Le vent rafle, le long de l'eau,
Les feuilles mortes des bouleaux,
Le vent sauvage de Novembre ;
Le vent mord, dans les branches,
Des nids d'oiseaux ;
Le vent râpe du fer
Et peigne, au loin, les avalanches,
Rageusement du vieil hiver,
Rageusement, le vent,
Le vent sauvage de Novembre.
Dans les étables lamentables,
Les lucarnes rapiécées
Ballottent leurs loques falotes
De vitres et de papier.
- Le vent sauvage de Novembre ! -
Sur sa butte de gazon bistre,
De bas en haut, à travers airs,
De haut en bas, à coups d'éclairs,
Le moulin noir fauche, sinistre,
Le moulin noir fauche le vent,
Le vent,
Le vent sauvage de Novembre.
Les vieux chaumes, à cropetons,
Autour de leurs clochers d'église.
Sont ébranlés sur leurs bâtons ;
Les vieux chaumes et leurs auvents
Claquent au vent,
Au vent sauvage de Novembre.
Les croix du cimetière étroit,
Les bras des morts que sont ces croix,
Tombent, comme un grand vol,
Rabattu noir, contre le sol.
Le vent sauvage de Novembre,
Le vent,
L'avez-vous rencontré le vent,
Au carrefour des trois cents routes,
Criant de froid, soufflant d'ahan,
L'avez-vous rencontré le vent,
Celui des peurs et des déroutes ;
L'avez-vous vu, cette nuit-là,
Quand il jeta la lune à bas,
Et que, n'en pouvant plus,
Tous les villages vermoulus
Criaient, comme des bêtes,
Sous la tempête ?
Sur la bruyère, infiniment,
Voici le vent hurlant,
Voici le vent cornant Novembre.
Émile Verhaeren
The Wind
Crossing the infinite length of the moorland,
Here comes the wind,
The wind with his trumpet that Heralds November;
Endless and infinite, crossing the downs,
Here comes the wind
That teareth himself and doth fiercely dismember;
Which heavy breaths turbulent smiting the towns,
The savage wind comes, the fierce wind of November!
Each bucket of iron at the wells of the farmyards,
Each bucket and pulley, it creaks and it wails;
By cisterns of farmyards, the pulleys and pails
They creak and they cry,
The whole of sad death in their melancholy.
The wind, it sends scudding dead leaves from the birches
Along o'er the water, the wind of November,
The savage, fierce wind;
The boughs of the trees for the birds' nests it searches,
To bite them and grind.
The wind, as though rasping down iron, grates past,
And, furious and fast, from afar combs the cold
And white avalanches of winter the old.
The savage wind combs them so furious and fast.
The wind of November.
From each miserable shed
The patched garret-windows wave wild overhead
Their foolish, poor tatters of paper and glass.
As the savage, fierce wind of November doth pass!
And there on its hill
Of dingy and dun-coloured turf, the black mill,
Swift up from below, through the empty air slashing,
Swift down from above, like a lightning-stroke flashing,
The black mill so sinister moweth the wind.
The savage, fierce wind of November!
The old, ragged thatches that squat round their steeple,
Are raised on their roof-poles, and fall with a clap,
In the wind the old thatches and pent-houses flap,
In the wind of November, so savage and hard.
The crosses--and they are the arms of dead people--
The crosses that stand in the narrow churchyard
Fall prone on the sod
Like some great flight of black, in the acre of God.
The wind of November!
Have you met him, the savage wind, do you remember?
Did he pass you so fleet,
--Where, yon at the cross, the three hundred roads meet--
With distressfulness panting, and wailing with cold?
Yea, he who breeds fears and puts all things to flight,
Did you see him, that night
When the moon he o'erthrew--when the villages, old
In their rot and decay, past endurance and spent,
Cried, wailing like beasts, 'neath the hurricane bent?
Here comes the wind howling, that heralds dark weather,
The wind blowing infinite over the heather.
The wind with his trumpet that heralds November!
Émile Verhaeren
Viento
El brezo sobre infinitamente larga,
Aquí el viento toca la bocina de noviembre;
El brezo, mucho,
Aquí el viento
¿Cuál es roto y desmembrado,
Con respiraciones pesadas, superando a las ciudades;
Aquí el viento
El viento salvaje de noviembre.
Pozos en las granjas,
Cubos de hierro y poleas
Squeak;
Los depósitos de almacenamiento.
Cubos y poleas
Squeak y llorar
Cualquier muerte de su melancolía.
La primicia del viento, junto con el agua,
Las hojas de abedul,
El viento salvaje de noviembre;
Mordido viento en las ramas,
nidos de ave;
Viento rejas de hierro
Y un peine de distancia, avalanchas,
Enojado el invierno de edad
Con furia, el viento,
El viento salvaje de noviembre.
Lamentable en graneros,
Tragaluces parcheado
Cuelgan los trapos de sus profesiones baratos
Vidrio y papel.
- El viento salvaje de noviembre! -
Cespitosas en su tez morena,
De abajo a arriba, a través del aire,
De arriba a abajo, golpes de rayo,
Cortar el molino negro, siniestro,
El molino negro cortar el viento
Viento,
El viento salvaje de noviembre.
Antiguo cañas en cropetons,
Alrededor de campanarios de la iglesia.
Se agitaron en sus palos;
Los rastrojos de edad y toldos
Ondeando al viento
Salvaje viento de noviembre.
Las cruces en el cementerio cercano,
Los brazos de los muertos son los que se cruzan
Otoño, como un gran vuelo
Plegadas negro contra el suelo.
El viento salvaje de noviembre,
Viento,
¿Se ha reunido el viento,
En el cruce de trescientos carreteras,
El llanto de frío, que sopla desde AHAN,
¿Se ha reunido el viento,
Teme y derrotas;
¿Has visto esa noche,
Cuando se tiró la luna,
Y eso no puede hacer frente,
Todos los pueblos podridos
Gritando como animales,
Bajo la tormenta?
El brezo, mucho,
Aquí el aullido del viento,
Aquí el viento toca la bocina de noviembre.
Émile Verhaeren
Kasım Yeli
Uçsuz bucaksız fundalıkta
İşte Kasımı duyuran yel
O sonsuz fundalıkta,
İşte yel
Yırtınan, parçalanan,
Güçlü soluklarıyla köylere çarpan
İşte o esinti,
Yabanıl Kasım yeli.
Çiftlik kuyularında
Demir kovalar, çıkrıklar
Gıcırdıyor.
Çiftlik sarnıçlarında
Kovalar, çıkrıklar
Gıcırdıyor, haykırıyor,
Ölüm yası içinde.
Sürüklüyor yel sular boyunca
Koparıp yeşil yaprakları
Yabanıl Kasım yeli;
Dişliyor dallar içindeki
Kuş yuvalarını;
Törpülüyor demirleri,
Geçen kıştan kalma uzaktaki
Çığları tırmıklıyor kudurmuş gibi
Kudurmuş gibi yel,
Yabanıl Kasım yeli.
İçleracısı ahırda,
Sallanıyor çatı pencereleri
Kağıttan camlar,
Yamalı bezler, çullar.
-Yabanıl Kasım yeli.-
Boz çimenli bayırda,
Kara değirmen,
Alttan havaya savurarak,
Üstten şimşek gibi vurarak,
Yaman biçiyor o yeli.
O yel
Yabanıl Kasım yeli.
Çömelmiş eski kulübeler,
Kilise çanları çevresinde
Dikilir dayanıp değneklerine;
Eski kulübeler ve saçakları,
Çatırdar bu yelden
Yabanıl Kasım yelinden.
Küçük mezarlıktaki putlar,
Ölülerin kollarıdır onlar,
Kuş sürüsü gibi düşerler yere,
Kırılırlar kara toprak üstünde.
Yabanıl Kasım yeli
O yel.
Rasladınız mı siz ona,
Üçyüz yolun kavşağında,
Rasladınız mı ona o yele,
Korku, bozgun yaratan o esintiye?
Gördünüz mü onu o gece,
Aya saldırıp sererken yere?
Gördünüz mü dermanı kesilen
O viran köyleri
Acı acı haykırırken
O fırtına içinde?
Sonsuz fundalık üstünde,
İşte o uluyan yel
Kasımı herkese duyuran yel
Émile Verhaeren
Çeviren: Nuri Can
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| November by Émile Noirot (French, 1853 - 1924) |
