Translated by A.Z. Foreman
And
he found - God treasure him - that his strength and body were declining with
age in the battle which took place in the summer of 1054, whereupon he composed
this lament.
Is
there among my friends a heart
As bitten, bitter as mine today?1
Is
there among my neighbors a woman
Whose grieving is greater than my wail?
Will
the deer lend me legs to run to the jackals
Who'd teach me to mourn my better days?
After
sixty one years, is a hair's breadth left
In my soul for delight at a songgirl's strains?
Now
that heaven's withdrawn the rainclouds of youth,
Will Time spread its youthful dew on my plain?
Now
my manhood's light has dimmed, is there
Yet oil to pour in my lamp for flame?
My
friends' graves say I'm to join them tomorrow
To pitch my tent deep in their domain:
If
I cannot regain the vigor I seek,
Best take up a shovel and start my grave.
The
grief of age has set in my heart
A fire whose tongues burn my hair bright gray.
Weakness
has strengthened the pain in my knees.
I strain even at court, on level terrain.
I
grieve for my soul which is dear to me,
And it's right to mourn what is dear always.
As my beard goes white, I see in my heart
A spot like soot on a pot: dark age.
Had I power over Time, I'd bind his hands
From brushing the black of my beard with gray.
As my beard goes white, I see in my heart
A spot like soot on a pot: dark age.
Had I power over Time, I'd bind his hands
From brushing the black of my beard with gray.
Were
it mere sorrow's fire now searing my skull,
Juice squeezed from my winepress would quench the blaze.
But age has squeezed all young manhood out
Juice squeezed from my winepress would quench the blaze.
But age has squeezed all young manhood out
From my face. Young women avert their gaze.
Would I could have the knowledge of God:
How near, how distant is that dread day?
How long shall I rest as spiritless dust
And when will my spirit rise again?
The heart says: Live on. Whatever rends
The body, may God heal my wounds away.
May He grant me strength in my weakness, empower
My limbs like wings on a bird of prey
In His goodness and grace. For in Him I rest
The hope and trust of all my days.
They say: in the grave is rest and peace.
But I fear it is where I will face my failures.
They call death "Going unto the Fathers."2
They are right. There my fathers and mothers await.
But why when I die must you drive my body
From my shady roof to the netherworld's shades?
Why clothe my corpse in a shroud when both
That cloth and I in the grave will degrade?
Why cleanse me in water, when come the morrow
I'll be foul with the stench of my rotting waist?
Many ages passed on this earth, O Lord,
And I was nothing among the ages.
Then You called me to mind, and sent me to be
Alive, though I never asked to be made,3
Then gave me in birth to death and destruction,
A source of sorrows, stone flung by Fate.
And though at my birth You beautified me,
Come the end You will deform my frame.
But Your word is true and Your works are righteous.
My spirit and mouth were crooked and snaked.
Bring me a scroll. Get me ink and a quill
And today I'll darken it with my tale.
My eyes as I read will flow like fountains
Because there can be no tears in the grave.
I'll mourn this lovely form that my friends
Will rush to the bonehouse that is man's fate,
This splendid form garbed in no greater splendor
Than dust, eyes shuttered, mouth plugged agape.
Like a stone in the heart of the sea, my tongue
That once told of my feats will be stilled in the crate.
The eyes that witnessed much wonder will rot
In their sockets, consumed in a pit of decay,
My limbs lie idle, my ears go deaf,
My palate bereft of speech and taste.
This bitterer still: I'll be called to rise
From dust and the grave on my judgment day
To be held in the balance of all my deeds
As my merits and sins on the scales are laid.
Yet perhaps an angel will speak for me,4
Lighten my wrongs, give my virtues weight,
And, at judgment, remind my Lord how I labored
In study of Scripture and Law for His sake.
I'll hear: "Long has the Lord in thy work found favor"5
As the weight of virtue tilts the scales
And in death I'll rejoice, gathered unto His Glory,
As He gathers the moon and stars of my gaze.
Would I could have the knowledge of God:
How near, how distant is that dread day?
How long shall I rest as spiritless dust
And when will my spirit rise again?
The heart says: Live on. Whatever rends
The body, may God heal my wounds away.
May He grant me strength in my weakness, empower
My limbs like wings on a bird of prey
In His goodness and grace. For in Him I rest
The hope and trust of all my days.
They say: in the grave is rest and peace.
But I fear it is where I will face my failures.
They call death "Going unto the Fathers."2
They are right. There my fathers and mothers await.
But why when I die must you drive my body
From my shady roof to the netherworld's shades?
Why clothe my corpse in a shroud when both
That cloth and I in the grave will degrade?
Why cleanse me in water, when come the morrow
I'll be foul with the stench of my rotting waist?
Many ages passed on this earth, O Lord,
And I was nothing among the ages.
Then You called me to mind, and sent me to be
Alive, though I never asked to be made,3
Then gave me in birth to death and destruction,
A source of sorrows, stone flung by Fate.
And though at my birth You beautified me,
Come the end You will deform my frame.
But Your word is true and Your works are righteous.
My spirit and mouth were crooked and snaked.
Bring me a scroll. Get me ink and a quill
And today I'll darken it with my tale.
My eyes as I read will flow like fountains
Because there can be no tears in the grave.
I'll mourn this lovely form that my friends
Will rush to the bonehouse that is man's fate,
This splendid form garbed in no greater splendor
Than dust, eyes shuttered, mouth plugged agape.
Like a stone in the heart of the sea, my tongue
That once told of my feats will be stilled in the crate.
The eyes that witnessed much wonder will rot
In their sockets, consumed in a pit of decay,
My limbs lie idle, my ears go deaf,
My palate bereft of speech and taste.
This bitterer still: I'll be called to rise
From dust and the grave on my judgment day
To be held in the balance of all my deeds
As my merits and sins on the scales are laid.
Yet perhaps an angel will speak for me,4
Lighten my wrongs, give my virtues weight,
And, at judgment, remind my Lord how I labored
In study of Scripture and Law for His sake.
I'll hear: "Long has the Lord in thy work found favor"5
As the weight of virtue tilts the scales
And in death I'll rejoice, gathered unto His Glory,
As He gathers the moon and stars of my gaze.
Notes:
1 - c.f. Proverbs 14:10 "The heart knoweth its own bitterness..."
2 - c.f. Genesis 15:15, 1 Chronicles 17:11 "And it shall come to pass, when thy days are fulfilled that thou must go to be with thy fathers..."
3 - c.f. Avoth 4:22 "Let not thy nature make thee believe that the grave is a place of refuge. For not of thy will wast thou formed, and not of thy will dost thou live, and not of thy will dost thou die, and not of thy will art thou to give just account and reckoning before the King of the kings of kings, the Holy One, blessed be He."
4 - c.f. Job 33:23-24 "If there be for him an angel, an intercessor, one among a thousand, to vouch for a man's uprightness, then He is gracious unto him ..."
5 - c.f. Ecclesiastes 9:7 "...for God hath already accepted thy works"
1 - c.f. Proverbs 14:10 "The heart knoweth its own bitterness..."
2 - c.f. Genesis 15:15, 1 Chronicles 17:11 "And it shall come to pass, when thy days are fulfilled that thou must go to be with thy fathers..."
3 - c.f. Avoth 4:22 "Let not thy nature make thee believe that the grave is a place of refuge. For not of thy will wast thou formed, and not of thy will dost thou live, and not of thy will dost thou die, and not of thy will art thou to give just account and reckoning before the King of the kings of kings, the Holy One, blessed be He."
4 - c.f. Job 33:23-24 "If there be for him an angel, an intercessor, one among a thousand, to vouch for a man's uprightness, then He is gracious unto him ..."
5 - c.f. Ecclesiastes 9:7 "...for God hath already accepted thy works"
E vide - Dio ne faccia tesoro - che la sua forza e il corpo declinavano con l'età nella battaglia dell'estate del 1054, a proposito di cui compose questo lamento.
C'è fra gli amici un cuore sì battuto
e amaro come oggi questo mio?
C'è fra i vicini miei una donna
il cui dolore sia più grande?
Mi presta il cervo le gambe a correre
a chi mi insegnò a far lutto i miei giorni?
A sessantanni ho in anima lo spazio
di un capello per il piacere e il canto?
Cielo allontana le nubi di allora
e Tempo sparge rugiada sul piano?
Affievolita la luce di maschio
ci sia olio per fiamma in lampada?
Tombe di amici dicono li raggiungo
a metter tenda nel loro dominio:
se non recupero il vigore cercato
meglio la vanga e scavarmi la fossa.
Dolore di età prese campo in cuore
fuoco le cui fiamme mi ingrigirono.
Debolezza rafforza il mio dolore.
Striscio anche a corte a livello terra.
Dispiace per l'anima che mi è cara,
giusto lutto sempre per quel che è caro.
Mentre la barba imbianca vedo in cuore
come macchia in pentola l'età scura.
Potere avessi sul tempo impedirei
facesse grigio il nero della barba.
Solo fuoco del dispiacere avessi
spremerei succo dal tornio del vino.
Ma vecchiaia spreme mascolinità
le giovani distolgono lo sguardo.
Possedessi conoscenza divina:
quanto dista ancora il temuto giorno?
Quanto resterò polvere senza spirito
e quando risorgerà lo spirito?
Dice il cuore: vivi. Quel che sia il corpo
possa Dio sanare le mie ferite.
Mi dia forza in debolezza e potere
alle membra come ali di uccello
Nella Sua bontà e grazia. Pongo in Lui
speranza e fede di tutti i miei giorni.
Dicono nella tomba sia il riposo
ma temo sia dove affrontare i fallimenti.
Dicono la morte: tornare ai padri.
Sì là mi aspettano le madri e i padri.
Ma perché portare il corpo da ombroso
tetto alle ombre dei mondi inferi?
Perché vestirlo di sudario, ambedue
dovendo nella tomba degradare?
Perché lavarmi se il mattino dopo
sarò pieno di puzza che marcisce?
Trascorse molte ere sulla terra,
ed io nulla fui in quelle ere.
Mi richiamasti e mi inviasti vivo
anche se mai chiesi di essere fatto,
desti nascita morte distruzione
fonte di dolori, lancio del fato.
Sebbene all'inizio mi rendesti bello
alla fine mi deformi la forma.
Vera Tua parola, giusta l'opera.
Spirito e bocca ebbi storti e serpenti.
Pergamena dammi, qui inchiostro e penna
ancora oggi compirò il racconto.
Mentre leggo gli occhi come fontane
che nella tomba non si lacrima più.
Piango la bella forma che gli amici
porranno nella tomba mio destino
splendida non più ornata che polvere
chiusi gli occhi e nella bocca agape.
Pietra nel cuore del mare la lingua
che disse le feste ora ammutolisce.
Occhi che tanto stupirono in pozzo
di delusione consunti testi.
Le membra inerti, orecchie ora sorde,
il palato perde parola e gusto.
Più amaro: sono chiamato a sorgere
da polvere nel giorno del giudizio
tenere le mie azioni su bilancia
i meriti e i peccati messi in scala.
Ma forse un angelo parlerà per me,
alleggerisce i torti, dona a virtù,
al giudizio ricorda che faticai
gli studi di Scrittura per amor Suo.
Il Signore a lungo trovò favore
e la scala è di virtù il valore
di morte gioisco unito in Gloria
che giunge luna e stelle nel mio sguardo.
