Fari un vers de dreyt nien
I shall make a vers about
downright nothing, not
about myself or youth or love
I wrote it horseback dead asleep
while riding in the sun.
I was born—don’t know the hour,
not blood nor choler has the power.
My humour’s neither sweet nor sour;
not worth a drop
since the night they sorcered me
on a mountaintop.
Don’t know if Im awake or sleep
if no one comes to fill me in.
My heart is nearly cleft with pain
(it rather it were partial).
I wouldn’t give you a mouse for it
by old Saint Martial.
I guess I’m sick enough to die,
know only what they tell me. I’ll
ask the doc for what I want, I
don’t know what it can be.
I’ll recommend his doctoring if
ever he can heal me, but
if I sicken and get worse, well
maybe not, maybe not.
I have a friend, I don’t know who
for I have never seen her. So
she treats me neither well nor ill,
I do not say I blame her.
But this argument is also nil, it
is not worth a curse
since I’ve never had a Norman or
a Frenchman in the house.
Never saw her and I love her
very much. It doesn’t matter if
she treats me straight or not, for I
do very well without her,
and besides, I know another who is
prettier and such.
Why, she is not worth a rooster, and
this other one is rich!
Well. I’ve made the vers already, though
I do not know of whom. And I shall
send it to a friend of mine who’s
sitting in a room.
He will hand it to another near Anjou,
a gravel pit, who may
send me back from out his box, someday,
the key to it.
Box or vers, the key to it.
Translated by Paul Blackburn