Wim Coleman
Well-Known Member
excerpt from a full translation of La vida es sueño (Life Is a Dream)
by Pedro Calderón de la Barca
You heavens, I strive to learn
why you must serve me so—
what evil I have done
against you by being born;
And yet, and yet—my birth,
I know, is crime enough
to wholly justify
your judgment and your wrath;
indeed, the greatest crime
of man is to be born.
But for my soul’s sweet solace,
I yearn solely to know
what further crime is mine
to cause such castigation
—apart, you cruel heavens,
from the crime of my birth.
Weren’t others born like me?
And born like me, oh, why,
why have they liberties
that I have never enjoyed?
Scarcely born is the bird
—all clothed in loveliness—
when, lo, this feathered flower,
this wayward, winged bouquet
takes presently to flight
through spacious heavenly halls,
rejecting the warm embrace
of the nest that was its home.
Must I, with larger soul,
have yet less liberty?
Scarcely born is the beast,
with skin as dearly dappled
(thanks to your cunning brush)
as the star-sparkled sky,
when human hunger comes,
audacious and so cruel,
to teach it beastly cruelty—
to be a maze-hunted monster.
Must I, with higher thoughts,
have yet less liberty?
Scarcely born is the fish
(unbreathing, from ooze and roe)
when this scale-studded craft
assays the very waves,
steering hither and yon
and sounding out the vastness
of the icy abyss
as deep as the deep allows.
Must I, with greater will,
have yet less liberty?
Scarcely born is the brook
—winding amid the flowers,
a shining silvery serpent—
when it breaks through the blossoms
with a shout of musical praise,
thanking the kindness of flowers
for lending their majesty
to its flight through open fields.
Must I, with fuller life,
have yet less liberty?
Volcanic rage now swells
in me—the rage of Etna!
I want to tear from my breast
stone pieces of my heart.
What justice, law, or reason
denies to men alone
this precious privilege,
this high and happy favor,
that God grants to a bird,
a beast, a fish, a brook?
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