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Proud on our horses, sovereign tribe,
Let us drive before us the bleating flocks,
The lowing oxen. Let each man lead away,
Clasped to him by her beautiful white arms,
The loving woman. For the halt is near.
Having left the land of high snowy peaks,
Of valleys moist with living springs,
We carry away its laughter, its games,
Its fresh memories, without plaintive songs.
In new lands we shall find better things.
Slaves, hasten the drowsy march
Of the herds. The lamb knows how to suckle while
The ewe runs grazing on the mint.
With your goads prick the strong oxen,
The lazy oxen tormented by the gadfly.
But we slow the pace, through
The woods; we dismount; and, white,
Our girls go off into the green bushes,
Hair in the wind, parting the branches,
Seeking with us for open paths.
Setting their white feet on the dry leaves,
They make tinkle around their necks
And on their beautiful breasts, soft as peaches,
The fine gold and silver, resounding jewels.
Thus we walk through the cool forests.
Here is dawn. Come! Enough sleep!
Let us not wait for those slow to follow,
See, the day has risen vermilion.
We shall conquer the dwarfs of ebony or copper
In the beautiful lands warmed by the sun.
And the dwarfs, knowing our untamable hearts,
Shall be trembling drivers and greasers
Of our chariots, cleaners of stables,
To keep your rosy fingers, your white arms,
Daughters of pure blood, with desirable eyes.
To the subjugated peoples, bowed to the ground,
The cares of plowing and of pasture;
We on the heights and in the thickets,
Consulting the wind, the sounds of the foliage,
Do battle with the wolves and the wild boars.
Let us leave the herds to graze on the plain.
Never kill the gentle ewes,
For we take from them the milk and the wool.
The cow also offers the milk of her udders.
Let us rejoice when the cow is full.
Milk makes happy the rosy children
Who make one forget bitter thought.
From milk we make the white cheeses,
Piquant, good with wine and beer.
Never kill the cow with the beautiful flanks.
The lowing oxen have the slow gait
That lets our children sleep in the chariots,
Amid the warm fur.
Respect the oxen, and also the bulls,
Jealous fertilizers, powerful of neck.
In the evening we return from the hunt, proud
Of the game won. The roe deer, the hare,
The black boar, fragrant flesh,
And the fat thrushes, fed on juniper,
Roast, steaming, before the bright fires.
The women then show us, content,
The wool and flax they have spun,
While the noisy children played, in the shade of the tents,
With lively eyes,
Under the red bush of their floating curls.
At the evening meals, before rest,
When the hares, the thrushes are cooked,
When the golden beer foams in the pots,
When the vermilion wine rings in the gourds,
We sing the deeds of ancient heroes.
The glow of the fires, the rays of the moon
Light, at night, your supple contours,
Daughters of pure blood. O you, let each
Give to each of us her loves,
And yield her white body, in the dark night.
He does wrong who, far from friends,
Slips away, forgetful of our lofty laws,
Under the chariots where our pure sons
Are sleeping, and goes, at night, toward the dwarfish women,
Beauty-less daughters of subjugated peoples.
From there, hateful mixed children,
Bad servants of our pure children,
Who, multiplied like the sands,
Will make revolt, in future days,
The subjugated peoples, cleaners of stables.
Therefore, we must drive out troubling instincts
And let the slaves unite among themselves,
Greasers of wheel-hubs, prickers of slow oxen,
While, in the evening, our suave girls
Clasp themselves to us with their beautiful white arms.
On the road, on horseback, sovereign tribe,
Heroes descended from the high snowy peaks;
White-footed girls whom each man leads away!
We shall find again laughter, games,
And love tonight; the halt is near.
Charles Cros
Translation generated by Poésies 123 with assistance from the deepseek-chat artificial-intelligence model.
Text published on Poésies 123: https://www.poesies123.com/en/poem-aryan-road-song-charles-cros/