Balada dels tres fadrins

Són tres fadrins que han vingut a la vila,
porten les mules amb flors al pitral.
Canta el cucut, la calàndria refila.
Són tres fadrins que se’n van a l’hostal.

Diu el més gran: «La vestida de grana
aquella nit va llançar-me un clavell.»
Diu el mitjà: «La de pell de magrana
aquella nit em posà aquest anell.»

Diu el menut: «La vestida de seda,
oh quina fina besada de mel...!»
Ploren les ombres a dins la verneda,
hi ha un blau d’estrelles morint-se pel cel.

Passa la tarda serena i tranquil·la,
un nuvolet s’endormisca al penyal.
Els tres fadrins que han vingut a la vila
tenen l’amor allà dins de l’hostal.

Ja han arribat a la porta fent fressa,
amb tot el pit flamejant i revolt,
ja han arribat i els ha obert la mestressa
esporuguida i vestida de dol.

I diu el gran: «Què n’heu fet de la noia
que aquella nit va llançar-me un clavell?»
«L’hereu més ric li ofrenava la toia
i ara sols viu i respira per ell.»

I fa el mitjà: «La de pell de magrana
que em va posar aquest anell de claror?»
«Caputxineta, el seu cor encomana
a les cinc nafres de Nostre Senyor.»

I fa el menut: «La vestida de seda
que vaig besar-li la neu de les mans?»
«Pols adormit, ull serè i galta freda,
es va morir al dematí de Tots Sants!...»

Hi ha un gran silenci d’angúnia i espera;
crema a la llar una mica de foc,
s’eixuga els ulls l’endolada hostalera
i els tres fadrins van sortint poc a poc.

I diu la gent que enraona i vigila
sense comprendre la pena i el mal:
«Són tres fadrins que se’n van de la vila.
Són tres fadrins que han sortit de l’hostal...

© Josep Maria de Sagarra
Audioproduktion: Biblioteca Nacional de Catalunya

Ballad of the Three Lads

They are three lads who’ve come to the village,
their mules’ breast-harness with flowers pinned.
Cuckoo-song, lark-song with an edge.
They are three lads who make for the inn.

The oldest says: «The wench in scarlet
threw a carnation to me that night.»
The next : «The girl with skin like a pomegranate
slipped a ring on my finger that night.»

And the youngest: « The girl in a silken dress,
gave me a kiss that tasted of honey...!»
The alder-shadows weep their distress,
A blueness of starlight dies in the sky.

The afternoon passes, peaceful, serene,
a small cloud drowses, pinned to a stone.
The three young lads who have come to the town
are thinking of love as they come to the inn.

They knock at the door with shouts and commotion,
each with his heart unbridled and burning,
they are there at the door the good wife has opened,
who stands there trembling, dressed in deep mourning.

Says the eldest, «What have you done with the wench
who that night threw me a lovely carnation?»
«The richest young man gave her a whole bunch,
and she lives and breathes now for him, her passion.»

The next: «And the girl with skin like a pomegranate,
who slipped this bright ring that day on my hand?»
«She’s a Capuchin nun who entrusts her heart
to Our Lord and Saviour and His five wounds.»

The youngest: «The girl in the dress made of silk,
who allowed me to kiss her snowy white hands?»
«Dust, and at peace, her cheek cold as milk,
she died at daybreak, the Feast of All Saints.»

There is a great silence of anguish and yearning;
the fire in the chimney burns fitfully,
she wipes away tears, the good wife in mourning.
The three young lads walk slowly away.

And they say, the people who reason and watch,
without understanding the hurt and the pain,
«There are three lads who are leaving the village,
there are three lads who’ve come out of the inn.»

Translated by Anna Crowe