Laatste update op 3 juni 2013
Onder de titel ‘Songs of faith’ zijn 38 gedichten van Willem de Mérode vertaald naar het Engels. De vertaling is uitgevoerd door 38 gedichten, Hans Osinga ».
The purging salt I have to win in pains and rushed to haste,
which can, with tart and titillating taste,
arouse again your dulled, insipid fancy;
unclean, cast out I carry out my duty.
You tend the holy fire! The budding flower you see,
which every evening blossoms on your handsome gasolier,
as though from o’er a thousand withered bushes bursts spring’s passion,
as though a sudden flow of summer wakes them from their hibernation.
You tend the holy fire! But all the sparks, for ages fossilized,
concealed exquisiteness, in course of times completely petrified,
I found, from coal-dust suffocated, drunk with vapours foul and heavy.
And what I lack myself, I’ve granted you, acquisitive and greedy.
And when the luxury of you expensive chandelier
tinges the grey of evening and grants it heart-felt glee,
know that my darkness lights you night,
your laugh is bred by my sad plight.
The gold, the god who reigns in deeds and thoughts,
I dug its dead omnipotence from deep, dark shafts.
(who can obtain it, is well off; who’s lost it, comes to grief.)
And ah! Its living benefit is meant for their relief:
When on the swelling wood the tender leaves are seen,
a girl and her beloved are dreaming in the green.
Then he will kiss her face, while both his hands are trembling,
when on her little finger, he slips the wedding-ring.
They have their marriage-feast and meet their obligations.
their house and yard resound with children’s exclamations;
their tender daughters are as sweet as are the grassy meads,
their sons four-square and faithful as are the shaggy fields.
To all of them the work imparts a mild and golden glowing;
im keeping with their noble mien their faces show profound rejoicing.
The long day brings to them a deep and blissful tiredness;
their laugh and sleep are always wholly free from care and painless.
The god whom I brought up, my quaking hands
just hold his splendour from some short-lived moments.
My fingers cherish him, my hungry hands are burning.
Then, for my little strength, a too hard load his weight is turning.
And grudgingly I let it go and working I steep down;
I take my paltry wages; I buy my food in town.
I have my spell of sleep and work painstakingly;
so I et free the god who has not set me free.
Yet one day God will comfort me and put an end to this:
the good Almighty ‘ll beckon and the Saviour in distress;
and with His silent smile I shall remember what I lacked:
the good I wrought and gave… but in my death I’m blessed.