terça-feira, 14 de fevereiro de 2012

Mily...una noches!!!...Las Mil y Una Noches (en árabe, ألف ليلة وليلة Alf layla wa-layla —lit. Mil noches y una noche—; en persa, هزار و یک شب, Hazār-o yak shab)...Allô allô, Tunis!

Recollections of the Arabian Nights

By Alfred, Lord Tennyson 1809–1892 Alfred, Lord Tennyson
When the breeze of a joyful dawn blew free
In the silken sail of infancy,
The tide of time flow'd back with me,
      The forward-flowing tide of time;
And many a sheeny summer-morn,
Adown the Tigris I was borne,
By Bagdat's shrines of fretted gold,
High-walled gardens green and old;
True Mussulman was I and sworn,
      For it was in the golden prime
            Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Anight my shallop, rustling thro'
The low and bloomed foliage, drove
The fragrant, glistening deeps, and clove
The citron-shadows in the blue:
By garden porches on the brim,
The costly doors flung open wide,
Gold glittering thro' lamplight dim,
And broider'd sofas on each side:
      In sooth it was a goodly time,
      For it was in the golden prime
            Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Often, where clear-stemm'd platans guard
The outlet, did I turn away
The boat-head down a broad canal
From the main river sluiced, where all
The sloping of the moon-lit sward
Was damask-work, and deep inlay
Of braided blooms unmown, which crept
Adown to where the water slept.
      A goodly place, a goodly time,
      For it was in the golden prime
            Of good Haroun Alraschid.

A motion from the river won
Ridged the smooth level, bearing on
My shallop thro' the star-strown calm,
Until another night in night
I enter'd, from the clearer light,
Imbower'd vaults of pillar'd palm,
Imprisoning sweets, which, as they clomb
Heavenward, were stay'd beneath the dome
      Of hollow boughs.—A goodly time,
      For it was in the golden prime
            Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Still onward; and the clear canal
Is rounded to as clear a lake.
From the green rivage many a fall
Of diamond rillets musical,
Thro' little crystal arches low
Down from the central fountain's flow
Fall'n silver-chiming, seem'd to shake
The sparkling flints beneath the prow.
      A goodly place, a goodly time,
      For it was in the golden prime
            Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Above thro' many a bowery turn
A walk with vary-colour'd shells
Wander'd engrain'd. On either side
All round about the fragrant marge
From fluted vase, and brazen urn
In order, eastern flowers large,
Some dropping low their crimson bells
Half-closed, and others studded wide
      With disks and tiars, fed the time
      With odour in the golden prime
            Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Far off, and where the lemon-grove
In closest coverture upsprung,
The living airs of middle night
Died round the bulbul as he sung;
Not he: but something which possess'd
The darkness of the world, delight,
Life, anguish, death, immortal love,
Ceasing not, mingled, unrepress'd,
      Apart from place, withholding time,
      But flattering the golden prime
            Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Black the garden-bowers and grots
Slumber'd: the solemn palms were ranged
Above, unwoo'd of summer wind:
A sudden splendour from behind
Flush'd all the leaves with rich gold-green,
And, flowing rapidly between
Their interspaces, counterchanged
The level lake with diamond-plots
      Of dark and bright. A lovely time,
      For it was in the golden prime
            Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Dark-blue the deep sphere overhead,
Distinct with vivid stars inlaid,
Grew darker from that under-flame:
So, leaping lightly from the boat,
With silver anchor left afloat,
In marvel whence that glory came
Upon me, as in sleep I sank
In cool soft turf upon the bank,
      Entranced with that place and time,
      So worthy of the golden prime
            Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Thence thro' the garden I was drawn—
A realm of pleasance, many a mound,
And many a shadow-chequer'd lawn
Full of the city's stilly sound,
And deep myrrh-thickets blowing round
The stately cedar, tamarisks,
Thick rosaries of scented thorn,
Tall orient shrubs, and obelisks
      Graven with emblems of the time,
      In honour of the golden prime
            Of good Haroun Alraschid.

With dazed vision unawares
From the long alley's latticed shade
Emerged, I came upon the great
Pavilion of the Caliphat.
Right to the carven cedarn doors,
Flung inward over spangled floors,
Broad-based flights of marble stairs
Ran up with golden balustrade,
      After the fashion of the time,
      And humour of the golden prime
            Of good Haroun Alraschid.

The fourscore windows all alight
As with the quintessence of flame,
A million tapers flaring bright
From twisted silvers look'd to shame
The hollow-vaulted dark, and stream'd
Upon the mooned domes aloof
In inmost Bagdat, till there seem'd
Hundreds of crescents on the roof
      Of night new-risen, that marvellous time,
      To celebrate the golden prime
            Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Then stole I up, and trancedly
Gazed on the Persian girl alone,
Serene with argent-lidded eyes
Amorous, and lashes like to rays
Of darkness, and a brow of pearl
Tressed with redolent ebony,
In many a dark delicious curl,
Flowing beneath her rose-hued zone;
      The sweetest lady of the time,
      Well worthy of the golden prime
            Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Six columns, three on either side,
Pure silver, underpropt a rich
Throne of the massive ore, from which
Down-droop'd, in many a floating fold,
Engarlanded and diaper'd
With inwrought flowers, a cloth of gold.
Thereon, his deep eye laughter-stirr'd
With merriment of kingly pride,
      Sole star of all that place and time,
      I saw him—in his golden prime,
Asie                                                                        1. Asia
CLICK to Listen on YouTube
Asie, Asie. Asie!
Vieux pays merveilleux des contes de nourrice 
Où dort la fantaisie comme une impératrice 
En sa forêt emplie de mystère. 
Asie, je voudrais m'en aller avec la goélette 
Qui se berce ce soir dans le port, 
Mystérieuse et solitaire, 
Et qui déploie enfin ses voiles violettes 
Comme un immense oiseau de nuit dans le ciel d'or.
Je voudrais m'en aller vers des îles de fleurs 
En écoutant chanter la mer perverse 
Sur un vieux rythme ensorceleur. 
Je voudrais voir Damas et les villes de Perse 
Avec les minarets légers dans l'air.
Je voudrais voir de beaux turbans de soie 
Sur des visages noirs aux dents claires; 
Je voudrais voir des yeux sombres d'amour 
Et des prunelles brillantes de joie 
En des peaux jaunes comme des oranges; 
Je voudrais voir des vêtements de velours 
Et des habits à longues franges.
Je voudrais voir des calumets entre des bouches
Tout entourées de barbe blanche;
Je voudrais voir d'âpres marchands aux regards louches,
Et des cadis, et des vizirs 
Qui du seul mouvement de leur doigt qui se penche
Accordent vie ou mort au gré de leur désir.
Je voudrais voir la Perse, et l'Inde, et puis la Chine,
Les mandarins ventrus sous les ombrelles, 
Et les princesses aux mains fines, 
Et les lettrés qui se querrellent 
Sur la poésie et sur la beauté; 
Je voudrais m'attarder au palais enchanté
Et comme un voyageur étranger 
Contemple à loisir des paysages peints 
Sur des étoffes en des cadres de sapin 
Avec un personnage au milieu d'un verger;
Je voudrais voir des assassins souriant 
Du bourreau qui coupe un cou d'innocent 
Avec son grand sabre courbé d'Orient.
Je voudrais voir des pauvres et des reines; 
Je voudrais voir des roses et du sang; 
Je voudrais voir mourir d'amour ou bien de haine. 
Et puis m'en revenir plus tard 
Narrer mon aventure aux curieux de rêves 
En élevant comme Sinbad ma vieille tasse arabe 
De temps en temps jusqu'à mes lèvres 
Pour interrompre le conte avec art ... 
Asia, Asia, Asia! 
Olden and wondrous land of tales dreamt by nursemaids,
Where sleeping fantasy lies like an empress fair 
In her forest o'erflowing with mystery.
Asia ... I should like to set out aboard the sea-bound schooner
Which is rocking this evening in port, 
Mysterious and solitary; 
And which at last unfurls its flutt'ring sails of purple 
Like an immense night bird aloft in the gold'n sky.
I should like to sail off towards islands of flow'rs
While list'ning to the perverse sea singing
In its old and bewitching rhythm.
I'd like to see Damascus, and cities of Persia
Where light minarets pierce through the air.*
I'd like to see those fine turbans of silk
Over black faces with white teeth gleaming;
I should wish to see eyes shaded with love
From which pupils shine brilliantly with joy
Against complexions as tawny as oranges; 
I should like to see fine vestments made of velvet 
And flowing robes with long, long fringes.
I'd like to see earthenware pipes stuck into pursed mouths
Wholly surrounded by white whiskers; 
I'd like to see rough-edged merchants cast dirty glances, 
And the qadis and the viziers, 
Who with just the mere movement of their crooked finger
Can dispense life or death at their desire's whim. 
I'd see Persia, and India, then also China:
Plump mandarins sitting under umbrellas, 
And princesses with hands most lithe, 
And wise scholars who yet are quarr'ling
Over poetry and over beauty;
I should like to pause in an enchanted palace 
And, like any foreign traveller, 
Contemplate at leisure those paintings of landscapes,
On finest fabrics in frames crafted out of fir,
Picturing someone in the middle of a grove; 
I'd like to see cruel assassins smile as
An executioner lops a guiltless head
With his big Oriental scimitar.
I'd like to see base paupers and grand queens, too
I'd like to see red roses and red blood; 
I'd like to see death caused by love, or else by hatred.
And later then I'll return home
To share my adventure with curious young dreamers;
And I will raise--just like Sinbad--my old Arabian goblet 
Up to my lips every now and then,
Interrupting the tale for artful effect ...
 * For a literal translation use: "With light minarets in the air."
2. La flûte enchantée                                                   2. The Enchanted Flute
CLICK to listen: on YouTube
L'ombre est douce et mon maître dort, 
Coiffé d'un bonnet conique de soie 
Et son long nez jaune en sa barbe blanche.
Mais moi, je suis éveillée encore 
Et j'écoute au dehors 
Une chanson de flûte où s'épanche 
Tour à tour la tristesse ou la joie. 
Un air tour à tour langoureux ou frivole, 
Que mon amoureux chéri joue.
Et quand je m'approche de la croisée 
Il me semble que chaque note s'envole 
De la flûte vers ma joue 
Comme un mystérieux baiser.
Darkness soothes and my master sleeps,
Coiffed in a cone-shaped night-bonnet of silk,
With his long nose yellow on his white whiskers.
But I, I'm wakened and roused again,
And I hear from outdoors
The lone song of a flute o'erflowing
At first with sorrow but then with such joy!
An air turning from languishing to frivolous,
Which my own dearest lover plays.
And as I move closer to the window,
To me it's as though each note has come winging
From his flute onto my cheek
Like a mysterious caress.
 3. L'indifférent                                                              3. The Indifferent One
CLICK to Listen on YouTube
Tes yeux sont doux comme ceux d'une fille, 
Jeune étranger, 
Et la courbe fine 
De ton beau visage de duvet ombragé 
Est plus séduisante encore de ligne.  Ta lèvre chante sur le pas de ma porte 
Une langue inconnue et charmante 
Comme une musique fausse ...
Entre! Et que mon vin te réconforte ... 
Mais non, tu passes 
Et de mon seuil je te vois t'éloigner 
Me faisant un dernier geste avec grâce 
Et la hanche légèrement ployée 
Par ta démarche féminine et lasse ...
Your eyes are soft like those of any maiden,
My young stranger,
And the delicate curve
Of your fine features, shadowed with a silk down,
Forms an even more seductive outline.
Your lips form a song at the foot of my doorstep
In a tongue incoherent yet charming,
Rather like music tuned falsely ...
Enter! And let my wine give you refreshment ...
But no ... you pass on,
And from my threshold I watch you depart
As you make a last graceful gesture for me,
With a curved hip casually swaying
From your saunter that's both girlish and languid ...


quarta-feira, 11 de janeiro de 2012

Love is the Master.

Abvum D'bashmaia

Abvum D'bashmaia
Netcádash shimóch
Teté malcutách una
Nehué tcevianách aicana d'bashimáia af b'arha
Hóvlan lácma d'suncanán iaomána
Uashbocan háubein uahtehín aicána dáf quinan shbuocán l'haiabéin
Uéla tahlan l'nesiúna, éla patssan min bixa
Metúl diláhie malcutá uaháila uateshbúcta láhlám,

Yeshua, ( c.06 a.c. - c.30 d.c. ), Belém, Judéia.