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Re: Ophelia

> > Here's a somewhat rough translation:
> >
> > It says something about Little Ophelia, dressed in white and dangling
> > flowers, going to meet the beautiful night with a dead piano.  Ophelia
> > has green teeth in boney water.  Why has it soiled your more pure vest,
> > why has it discolored your blond hair, which it covers neither long nor
> > beautiful(s)?  What words are on your labia, which are made by the poet,
> > or which poems, written in large churches, are written in your sweet
> > insanity?  Ophelia, silk and shade blacken your avocado legs and feel
> > dorment in my money bags.  Ophelia,   I cannot know how much Vincent has
> > seen the world, or perhaps has directed its magic words.  Ophelia, your
> > words in the wind, so pardonable in time, but which saps the troubadour
> > in corrosive tintinabulation.  Ophelia...  Ophelia...
> >
> > Ciao,
> > Giuditta
> >

> OK, OK.
>
> Here is a slightly more accurate translation.  It isn't good English
> poetry, but it is a fairly direct translation of the Italian.
>
> ---------
>
> When the evening, colors with the tired
> Golden sunset, the guard towers,
> Little Ophelia, dressed in white
> I find you in the night, most beautiful and barefoot.
> Garlands of flowers in you hands
> Reflections of dreams in you hair
> A thousand colors in your hair,
> Night and day, awake and asleep
>
> Ophelia, what do you feel when the voices of the terraces
> Announces to you that it is now time and the day quietly dies.
> Ophelia, what do you see in the green water of the grave
> In the wriggling of the trout that changes the color.
>
> Why have you put on the dress more pure,
> Why have you dissolved your blond hair,
> Run to your spouse, be perhaps afraid
> That you will find him not far and not handsome.
> What words are on your lips,
> What did the poet make or what poetry,
> Does the falcon knows in his long searchings
> Or that you know in your sweet madness.
>
> Ophelia, the silk and black shadows wrap you to read [over?]
> And you will hear sleeping now the cadence of the lute.
> Ophelia, you cannot know the troubles I have seen in the world,
> Or perhaps you know and will say it with magic words.
> Ophelia you lose your words to the wind in time
> But who knows how to find them in the tinkling corruption.
>
I like mine better.

--a cunning linguist

Max Geldray will now play a loaded sackbut from the kneeling position.
-Greenslade
** Posted from http://www.teranews.com **

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