Utopia Balcanica

Fie pâinea cât de rea, margarină pui pe ea

Mult, foarte mult ar trebui să gândesc ca să identific un om mai mare şi mai frumos decât a fost Brassens. De-aia îl las pe el să vă transmită mesajul meu de întâi decembrie. Hai noroc.

(pentru nefrancofoni, primele două traduceri sunt de aici)

Le jour du Quatorze Juillet
je reste dans mon lit douillet.
La musique qui marche au pas,
cela ne me regarde pas.
Je ne fais pourtant de tort à personne
en n’écoutant pas le clairon qui sonne.
Mais les braves gens n’aiment pas que
l’on suive une autre route qu’eux.
On the day of the 14th of July
I keep to my cosy bed.
The marching music,
that doesn’t concern me.
I don’t do harm to anyone
by not listening to the bugle that sounds.
But the good folk don’t like it when
you follow another way than them
Des idées réclamant
le fameux sacrifice,
les sectes de tout poil
en offrent des séquelles
et la question se pose
aux victimes novices:
mourir pour des idées,
c’est bien beau, mais lesquelles?
Et comme toutes sont
entre elles ressemblantes,
quand il les voit venir,
avec leur gros drapeau,
le sage, en hésitant,
tourne autour du tombeau.
Mourons pour des idées,
d’accord,
mais de mort lente,
d’accord, mais de mort lente.
Ideas demanding
the supreme sacrifice,
sects of every ilk
bring zealots for the act
and the question is asked
by the novice victims:
to die for ideas is quite fine,
but for which ones?
And as they are all
very much alike,
when he sees them coming,
their huge flag held aloft,
the wise man, hesitating,
stays away from the grave.
Let’s die for some ideas,
agreed,
but let’s die slow,
agreed, but let’s die slow.
C’est pas un lieu commun
celui de leur naissance;
ils plaignent de tout coeur
les petits malchanceux,
les petits maladroits
qui n’eurent pas la présence,
la présence d’esprit
de voir le jour chez eux.
Quand sonne le tocsin
sur leur bonheur précaire
contre les étrangers
tous plus ou moins barbares,
ils sortent de leur trou
pour mourir à la guerre,
les imbéciles heureux
qui sont nés quelque part,
les imbéciles heureux
qui sont nés quelque part.
Their place of birth
is not like any other place.
They are compassionate
towards the poor unlucky ones,
the little clumsy ones
who did not have
the presence of mind to be born
in that homeland of theirs.
Whenever their precarious happiness
is challenged,
against the strangers who are
more or less all barbarous,
they move out of their own backyard den
to die at war,
the happy simple-minded folks
who were born in some place,
the happy simple-minded folks
who were born in some place.
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Vasile

Vasile e căpetenia internaţională a bărboşilor (şi a acestui sait). Are multe preocupări, cel puţin în comparaţie cu oamenii care n-au.

Contact

vasile (a rond) utopiabalcanica punct net
Alte articole!
De sfânta zi a sfântului apostol Andrei care i-a creştinat…
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