Clyde Moneyhun
english
De la por
L’ànima petita
Se’m fa a poc a poc.
Tinc la casa oberta,
Mestressa no sóc;
Feinejo debades
I amb un ai al cor:
Les portes no clouen.
Déu meu, quina por!
L’ànima, petita
Se’m fa a poc a poc.
Trompetes de festa,
Violins d’estiu,
Sonaven encara
Avui com ahir
-si no desafinen
Se n’hi va ben prim.
I les flors a taula
Canten de desig;
Dels meus fills el riure
És salt de dofins.
Però ai!, voldria
De ma por repòs.
L’esparver que temo
Ja ha aixecat el vol.
La terra verdosa
Se’m tara de groc.
És injust que ens lligui
La por de la mort.
I jo ai!, voldria
De ma por repòs.
From: "Cant i paraules" in "Poemes"
Sabadell: La Mirada, 1936
Audio production: Library of Congress, Washington
On Fear
My soul shrivels
a little at a time.
My house is thrown open,
I´m no longer its mistress;
I work desperately in vain
with an ache in my heart:
the doors won´t close,
my God, what fear!
My soul shrivels
a little at a time.
Festival trumpets,
summer violins,
playing still
today like yesterday
—a little out of tune,
dying thinly away.
And the flowers on the table
sing of desire;
my children´s laughter
is the leap of dolphins.
But oh! I wish
I could rest.
The hawk I fear
has already taken flight.
The verdant earth
is decaying to yellow.
It´s not fair that we´re bound
to fear and death.
And I, oh! I wish
I could rest.