Friday, November 13, 2015

Monique Morelli - Villon - Poor I am


This is an extract of the great will of Villon.
Original Title: "Pauvre je suis"
In the thirtieh year of my age
That all my shames I'd have drunk
Nor completely crazy, nor completely wise
In spite of many sorrows I had

Which I all received
Under the hand of Thibaut d'Aussigny...
If Bishop he is, lording the streets,
That he is mine I deny him!

My lord he is not, nor my bishop
Under him nothing holds if not lieing fallow
Faith owes him no tribute
I am not his serf nor his doe
Fed with a small loaf
and of cold water a whole summer
Broad or narrow, a lot has been meagre to me
Let God be to him like he was to me.

Poor I am since my youth
Of poor and humble origin
My father never had big wealth
Nor his grandfather named Horace

Poverty follows and tracks us
On the tombs of my ancesters
The souls as soon as they embrace God
Are seen on them no crowns or scepters

And if someone wants to reprimand me
And say that I curse him
Not done, if one can well understand
In no way do I speak ill of him

Here is all the bad that I have to say:
If he has been mercifull to me
Jesus, the king of paradise
Let him be alike to the soul and body!

If he has been tough and cruel to me
Much more than here is told
I want that the eternal God
Is to him then alike to that account

And if the church tells us and relates
That we should pray for our enemies
I would tell you: "I am wrong and ashamed
Whatever he did to, commited it to God"

Poor I am since my youth
Of poor and humble origin
My father never had big wealth
Nor his grandfather named Horace

Poverty follows and tracks us
On the tombs of my ancesters
The souls as soon as they embrace God
Are seen on them no crowns or scepters

Over poverty bemoaning
Many times the heart tells me:
"Man, do not be so upset
And do not exert such pain,

If you do not have as much heart as Jack:
Better to live under big clog
Poor, than having been lord
And rot under rich tomb!"

If I am not, well considered,
Son of angel wearing tiara
of Stars nor stagger others.
My father is dead, God have his soul!

As to the body, it lies under the blade
I understand that my mother will die
And she knows it well the poor woman,
And the son will not resurect.

Poor I am since my youth
Of poor and humble origin
My father never had big wealth
Nor his grandfather named Horace

Poverty follows and tracks us
On the tombs of my ancesters
The souls as soon as they embrace God
Are seen on them no crowns or scepters

I know that poors and richs,
Wise and mad, priests and ugly ones,
Nobles, vilains, big and meager,
Small and tall, and beautiful and ugly,

Ladies with rolled up short capes,
Of any condition,
Wearing attires and rolls,
Death grabs without exception.

Death make them shudder and go pale,
The nose to curve, the veins to stretch,
The neck to swell, the flesh to go soft,
Joints and nerves to grow and spread.

Feminine body, which is so tender,
Polished, silky, so precious
Will you have to wait for those ills?
Yes, or all alive go to heavens.

Poor I am since my youth
Of poor and humble origin
My father never had big wealth
Nor his grandfather named Horace

Poverty follows and tracks us
On the tombs of my ancesters
The souls as soon as they embrace God
Are seen on them no crowns or scepters

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