Para lembrar o centenário do genocídio armênio (de que falei aqui),
traduzi um poema de um significativo poeta do país, não por coincidência
barbaramente assassinado em 1915 pelos turcos. Tive que traduzir do
inglês, de vez que, infelizmente, meu armênio do Ensino Fundamental anda
um pouco enferrujado. Há muitos, mas muitos anos não traduzia nada.
Inspiraram-me a efeméride e, mais, o fato de Camila ter recém lindamente
traduzido The Book of Thel, do Blake.
O poema de Daniel Varoujan (1884-1915) tem seu quê de sentimental, é verdade, mas não deixa de irradiar um sentimento verdadeiro, mormente se minimamente lembrarmos da condição dos armênios sob o jugo turco ("They burst the door, they swept the larders bare").
THE LONGING LETTER
Daniel Varoujan
MY mother
writes: “My son on pilgrimage,
How long beneath a strange moon will you roam?
How long a time must pass ere your poor head
To my warm bosom I may press, at home?
“Oh, long enough upon strange stairs have trod
Your feet, which in my palms I warmed one day—
Your heart, in which my breasts were emptied once,
Far from my empty heart has pined away!
“My arms are weary at the spinning wheel;
I weave my shroud, too, with my hair of snow.
Ah, would mine eyes could see you once again,
Then close forever, with my heart below!
“Always I sit in sadness at my door,
And tidings ask from every crane that flies.
That willow slip you planted long ago
Has grown till over me its shadow lies.
“I wait in vain for your return at eve.
All the brave fellows of the village pass,
The laborer goes by, the herdsman bold—
I with the moon am left alone, alas!
“ My ruined house is left without a head.
Sometimes for death, and always for the cheer
Of my own hearth I yearn. A tortoise I,
Whose entrails to its broken shell adhere!
“Oh, come, my son, your ancient home restore!
They burst the door, they swept the larders bare.
Now all the swallows of the spring come in
Through shattered windows, open to the air.
“ Of all the goodly flocks of long ago
One brave ram only in our stable stands.
His mother once—remember, little son—
While yet a lamb, ate oats out of your hands.
“Rice, bran and clover fine I give him now,
To nourish his rich dmak, of noble size;
I comb his soft wool with a wooden comb;
He is a dear and precious sacrifice.
“When you come back, his head with roses wreathed,
He shall be sacrificed to feast you, sweet;
And in his blood, my well-beloved son,
I then will wash my pilgrim’s weary feet.”
How long beneath a strange moon will you roam?
How long a time must pass ere your poor head
To my warm bosom I may press, at home?
“Oh, long enough upon strange stairs have trod
Your feet, which in my palms I warmed one day—
Your heart, in which my breasts were emptied once,
Far from my empty heart has pined away!
“My arms are weary at the spinning wheel;
I weave my shroud, too, with my hair of snow.
Ah, would mine eyes could see you once again,
Then close forever, with my heart below!
“Always I sit in sadness at my door,
And tidings ask from every crane that flies.
That willow slip you planted long ago
Has grown till over me its shadow lies.
“I wait in vain for your return at eve.
All the brave fellows of the village pass,
The laborer goes by, the herdsman bold—
I with the moon am left alone, alas!
“ My ruined house is left without a head.
Sometimes for death, and always for the cheer
Of my own hearth I yearn. A tortoise I,
Whose entrails to its broken shell adhere!
“Oh, come, my son, your ancient home restore!
They burst the door, they swept the larders bare.
Now all the swallows of the spring come in
Through shattered windows, open to the air.
“ Of all the goodly flocks of long ago
One brave ram only in our stable stands.
His mother once—remember, little son—
While yet a lamb, ate oats out of your hands.
“Rice, bran and clover fine I give him now,
To nourish his rich dmak, of noble size;
I comb his soft wool with a wooden comb;
He is a dear and precious sacrifice.
“When you come back, his head with roses wreathed,
He shall be sacrificed to feast you, sweet;
And in his blood, my well-beloved son,
I then will wash my pilgrim’s weary feet.”
A CARTA SAUDOSA
Daniel Varoujan
A MÃE escreve: “Filho peregrino,
Por quanto tempo sob estranha lua
Andarás? E por quanto tempo
espero
Para aquecer no peito a cabeça tua?
“Ah, teus pés, quantas escadas estranhas
Não pisaram? Pés que aqueci no frio.
E teu coração, que já saciei,
Sofre e vaga longe do meu, vazio.
“Na roca estão exaustos os meus braços
Onde já velha a mortalha teço.
Ah, pudessem meus olhos ver-te ainda
E para sempre cerrar-se, o que peço.
“Sempre sento-me triste à minha porta
Onde notícias peço aos grous passantes
O teu salgueiro, que plantaste há muito,
Me cobre com as sombras verdejantes.
“Em vão espero o teu retorno à noite.
Passam homens da vila, sempre assim.
Ali o camponês, lá o pastor
Eu fico só com a lua, ai de mim!
“Minha casa em ruínas não tem dono
Às vezes pela morte anseio, e faço
Sempre alegres votos ao lar. Qual cágado
Prendo as entranhas ao casco em pedaços.
“Vem, meu filho, retorna ao lar antigo!
Já destruíram a despensa e a porta
Andorinhas da primavera agora
A casa adentram por janelas mortas.
“Dos nossos bons rebanhos do passado
Um único carneiro inda passeia.
Certa vez sua mãe (lembras-te, filho?)
Em tuas mãos alimentou-se de aveia.
“Agora dou-lhe arroz, farelos, trevos
Para nutrir o seu nobre tamanho.
Sua lã macia penteio com madeira
Nosso querido e precioso anho.
“Quando voltares, grinalda à cabeça,
Sacrificá-lo para ti irei
E com seu sangue, exausto filho amado,
Os teus pés peregrinos lavarei.”
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