L ' A S E
NOUVÈ
( Jean-Henri Fabre' poem in Provençal )
Pèr lou caufa,
A Betelèn, dins un estable,
Sus l'enfantoun, quau a boufa ?
Es iéu, l'ase, lou miserable.
Mai erian dous :
Sus lou front, ma narro tubavo ;
Sus li pèd, lou biòu pietadous
De si caud boufet alenavo.
E l'enfantoun
Ennivoulì pèr la tubèio,
Dins si lagne en pèu de moutoun,
S'estiravo, santo ninèio.
Bèu se fara
E grand, afourtisson li pastre.
Li mage dison : Rèi sara.
L'an legi, la niue, dins lis astre.
E l'ase, ièu,
Assabenti mai que li mage,
Dis l'enfantoun devine un Diéu,
Lou Diéu di fort, di bon, di sage.
Lou mèstre es na
Au founs d'uno grùpio vendrudo.
Ansin dison lis hosanna
Dòu jas à téulisso tepudo.
Car l'umble vèi
I rai de sa fe benurado,
Miés que li mage e que li rèi,
Espeli la causo sacrado.
Pèr Calèndo 1896.
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Photograph : Fouque ™
Photograph : Fouque ™
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Translation :
T H E D O N K E Y
Christmas
(Jean-Henri Fabre, 1896)
To heat him,
in Bethlehem, in a stall,
who blew on the small child ?
It is me, the Donkey, the poor person.
But we were two:
on his forehead, my nostril smoked;
on his feet, the pathetic beef,
blew his hot breath.
And the small child,
buried in a cloud of moisture,
in his diapers made of sheepskin,
stretched, holy géniture.
He will become beautiful
and big, affirm the shepherds.
The maguses say: he will be a King.
They read it, the night, in the stars.
And the donkey, me,
more scholarly than the maguses,
in the small child I guess a God,
the God of the strong, of the good, of the sages.
The master is born
to the bottom of a pot-bellied nursery.
So say the hosanna
of the lodging to grassy roofing.
Because the humble sees
to the rays of his blissful faith,
better than the maguses and that the kings,
to hatch the sacred thing.
For Christmas 1896.
