Sedulia's Translations

Georges Moustaki: In the Mediterranean

In this basin where
children with black eyes play
there are three continents
and centuries of history,
prophets of the gods,
the Messiah in person.
There is a fair summer there
that fears no autumn,
in the Mediterranean.

There is a smell of blood
floating on its banks
and martyrised countries
like so many open wounds,
barbed-wire islands,
walls that imprison.
There is a fair summer there
that fears no autumn,
in the Mediterranean.

There are olive trees
dying under bombs
in the place where
the first dove appeared,
forgotten people
harvested by war.
There is a fair summer there
that fears no autumn,
in the Mediterranean.

In this basin, I played
when I was a child.
I had my feet in the water.
I breathed the wind.
My playmates
have become men,
the brothers of those
the world has abandoned,
in the Mediterranean.

The sky is in mourning
above the Parthenon,
and "freedom" is no longer
said in Spanish.
But we can go on dreaming
of Athens and Barcelona.
There is still a fair summer there
that fears no autumn,
in the Mediterranean.

--Georges Moustaki (1934- ) was born in Alexandria, Egypt. His parents were Sephardic Jews from Greece. He moved to France in 1951, and wrote this song in 1971, when Greece and Spain were under dictatorships. Since then Greece and Spain have become democracies, but the Mediterranean still sees wars and conflict. This is my favorite song of Moustaki's. You can buy it on iTunes. You can hear him singing it here.

En Méditerranée

Dans ce bassin où jouent
Des enfants aux yeux noirs,
Il y a trois continents
Et des siècles d'histoire,
Des prophètes des dieux,
Le Messie en personne.
Il y a un bel été
Qui ne craint pas l'automne,
En Méditerranée.

Il y a l'odeur du sang
Qui flotte sur ses rives
Et des pays meurtris
Comme autant de plaies vives,
Des îles barbelées,
Des murs qui emprisonnent.
Il y a un bel été
Qui ne craint pas l'automne,
En Méditerranée.

Il y a des oliviers
Qui meurent sous les bombes
Là où est apparue
La première colombe,
Des peuples oubliés
Que la guerre moissonne.
Il y a un bel été
Qui ne craint pas l'automne,
En Méditerranée.

Dans ce bassin, je jouais
Lorsque j'étais enfant.
J'avais les pieds dans l'eau.
Je respirais le vent.
Mes compagnons de jeux
Sont devenus des hommes,
Les frères de ceux-là
Que le monde abandonne,
En Méditerranée.

Le ciel est endeuillé,
Par-dessus l'Acropole
Et liberté ne se dit plus
En espagnol.
On peut toujours rêver,
D'Athènes et Barcelone.
Il reste un bel été
Qui ne craint pas l'automne,
En Méditerranée.

Luis de Góngora y Argote: The hours that are filing down the days, the days that are gnawing down the years

Of the deceitful brevity of life

The arrow goes less quickly to its target,
that it bites sharply; the straining chariot
does not race more silently
over the mute sand to the finish line,

than hastily and secretly our age
runs to its end. To whomever doubts this,
proud as he may be of naked reason,
each repeated Sun is a comet.

Carthage admits this, and you don't know it?
You risk danger, Licio, if you keep on
following shadows and embracing illusions.

The hours will not pardon you easily;
the hours that are filing down the days,
the days that are gnawing down the years.

--Luis de Góngora y Argote (1561-1627). This is one of the most famous poems in the Spanish language.

De la brevedad engañosa de la vida

Menos solicitó veloz saeta
destinada señal, que mordió aguda;
agonal carro por la arena muda
no coronó con más silencio meta,

que presurosa corre, que secreta,
a su fin nuestra edad. A quien lo duda,
fiera que sea de razón desnuda,
cada Sol repetida es un cometa.

¿Confiésalo Cartago, y tú lo ignoras?
Peligro corres, Licio, si porfías
en seguir sombras y abrazar engaños.

Mal te perdonarán a ti las horas;
las horas que limando están los días,
los días que royendo están los años.