BALAGTAS, Francisco
Florante de Laura
…..
Sa Babasa Nito / To the Reader
|
|
if you will value this humble labor of mine. This poem springs from a mind worn weary, yet it may still be of use to those who seek wisdom.
it is only because its outer skin is young and plain. But if you savor the flavor within, even the learned reader will find it pleasing.
You may laugh at it or scorn my poor poem. Do with it whatever you wish— only do not alter its verses.
do not judge it at once as flawed or crooked. First examine its full meaning and intent, and you will discover that it is clear and true.
do not think it is merely an obscure word. Let your eyes look to the note below, and the full meaning will become clear.
Do not imitate Sigismund, whose sweet and graceful speech became common due to the poem's popularity.
|
In this dark wood thick with gloom
The thick weave of thorny vines…
Rays of Phoebus cannot pierce,
Almost, the solid wilderness.
Great trees loom, disclosing
Sadness only, grief, despair.
Mournful birds dispel
The cheerful air, the stoic pose.
Convolutions of the vine
On branch and twig bristle with thorns.
Their fruit, as if downed with knives,
Wounds the passerby.
And flowers for the looming trees,
Specks of bright shooting through leaves)
Wear the color of mourning,
Sharpen the dizzying stench.
Clumps of cypress and young fig
Cast a terrifying shade
Fruitless, they spread great leaves.
Darkness deepens on the weed.
And beasts that roam
Are shapes of serpent, basilisk,
Hyena, tiger — beasts that prey
On man and beast.
…..
Florante’s Lament
Vengeful Heaven, where is your wrath?
now my land is overcome, prostrate,
and in beloved Albania’s infinite skies,
lately the flag of evil flies.
|
Kaliluha'y siyang nangyayaring hari; Kagalinga't bait ay nalulugami, Ininis sa hukay ng dusa’t pighati
|
Treachery reigns as the ruling power; Virtue and wisdom lie crushed and helpless, Buried in the grave of suffering and grief.
|
All manner of good and deed are cast
into the sea of mockery and perturbation,
each good man is treated without respect,
without burial rite entombed.
But, oh, the cheat, the traitor, the black
of heart, are enthroned in praise,
and for each scoundrel incense is burned,
and offered up in fragrant smoke.
Betrayal, dishonesty hold high
their heads, and the righteous is timid, bowed,
dismayed, reason itself is on its knees,
fatigued, and to weep is all that’s left for it.
And each mouth that opens
to speak the truth and right
is quickly stopped and cut
by the arrogant blade of death.
O traitorous ambition for honor and riches!
O hunger for airy and fleeting praise!
You are the reason for all this sinfulness,
this misfortune that has befallen me.
By the crown of King Linceaeus
and the riches of my father, the duke,
Count Adolfo was so bold to pour evil
upon Albania’s sovereign land.
All these, O merciful Heaven
you witness, why suffer them persist?
O Source of sense and righteousness,
why permit them drown in ruthlessness?
Lift your right and righteous hand,
swing the shining blade of your rage,
upon all evil in Albania’s kingdom pour
the full vengeance of your justice.
Why, O Heaven, do you turn
a deaf ear to my suit and honest plea?
Why from this poor and luckless being
avert your face and shut your ears?
And who could ever fathom,
O Great God, your sacred mystery?
The good will not happen on earth
if it is not Your Will.
Alas, where now turn
for handhold, bring my heart’s lament,
If Heaven refuses to listen
to my plaintive cry, my faint complaint?'
|
|
those days in love’s long-faded script, would there be not a mark or trace but Celia’s, imprinted on my breast?
feared might forget our love, who took me down these hapless depths, the only reason for this turn of fate.
the pages of our tenderness, or call to mind the love she poured, the bitter struggle I gave for it?
my love is all that’s left; ever shall it dwell within till I’m laid down in my grave.
behold wherein I seek relief: each bygone day I revisit, I find joy in the likeness of your face.
and longing has lodged within my heart, sole token left with me not even death can steal.
and fields you blessed with your footsteps; and to Beata River and shallow Hilom stream my heart never fails to wander.
sits under the mango tree we passed, and looking at the dainty fruits you wanted picked I forget my ache.
be intimate with sighs when you were ill; for I knew as Eden kept a room us, my hidden hurt was heaven still.
in the Makati river we frequented; to the happy berth of boats I trace your steps, among the stones that touched your feet.
the joy of years, the blissful past, where I would soak and steep myself before I’m caught in brackish neap.
Three days and our eyes won’t meet. And the eager answer from my leaping heart: There’s only me but you prepare a feast.
joyful past that memory could miss: in constant retrun the tears do flow, I sigh and weep: O hapless fate!
Why could our blissful love not last? Where is the time when just her look was heaven’s glimpse, my soul, my life?
did this luckless life not cease? Your memory is death, O Celia, but in my heart you will not fade.
I couldn’t bear, O departed Joy; but it took me by the hand to poetry and song, about a life so trodden low, now lost.
my muse is dumb, her voice faint; without my taunt she would not speak, pray listen to me with mind and ear.
from my parched mind I offer at your feet: deign receive, from this kneeling heart, even if you won’t savor it.
my gain is great from invested effort, if complaint it is you now peruse, remember, too, it is the author’s gift.
Sirens whose voices bring music to my ears, I come now to your sparkling shrine, my forlorn muse implores you.
accompany with lyre this humble song that speaks: if fate this life may snip, its fervent wish is that love won’t cease.
Celia whose symbols are M, A, and R; here I am adoring at the Virgin Madonna’s altar, F and B, your loyal servant.
|