The Democratic Republic of Poetry
Jaufre RudelTroubadoursProsodyNewsletterAnamorphisms

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No sap chantar qui so non di,
Ni vers trobar qui motz no fa,
Ni conoys de rima quo's va
Si razons non enten en si.
Pero mos chans comens'aissi
Com plus l'auziretz, mais valra.

Nuils hom no'ys meravilh de mi
S'ieu am so que no veyrai ja,
ni nulha res ta mal no'm fa
quo so qu'anc de mos huelhs no vi,
ni no'm dis ver ni no'm menti,
ni no sai si ja so fara.

Colp de joy me fier, que m'auci,
ab poncha d'amor que'm sostra
lo cor don la carns magrira,
se'm breu merce no'l pren de mi.
E anc hom tan gen no mori
ab tan dous mal, ni non s'escha.

Anc ta suau no m'adormi
que mos esperitz no fos la,
a la belha que mon cor a,
on mey voler fan dreg cami.
E pot ben dir sa man m'auci,
que mais tan fizel non aura.

Un'amor londanha m'auci,
e'l dous dezirs propdas m'esta
e quan m'albir qu'eu me'n an la
en forma d'un bon pellegri,
mey voler son sai; anc issi
de ma mort qu'estiers no sera.

Peironet, passa riu, di-li
que mo cors a lieys passara,
e si li platz alberguar m'a,
per que'l parlamen sera fi.
Mal me faderon mey pairi,
s'amors m'auci per lieys que m'a.

Bos es lo vers, s'ieu no'y falhi,
ni tot so que y es ben esta,
e sel que de mi l'apenra
guard-si que res no m'i cambi!
Car si l'auzon en Caerci
lo vescoms ni'l coms en Tolza.

Bos es lo sos, e faran-hi
quasqus don mos chans gensara.

He can't sing, he who doesn't utter a sound
nor can he shape verses, he who doesn't say a word,
nor can he see the ways of poetry
he who doesn't understand the meaning.
Therefore my song begins in such a way
that the more you listen to it, the more it'll be to you.

Let no man marvel at me
if I love something I will never see
if nothing hurts me more
than that which I have never seen with my eyes
which never lied nor ever spoke truth to me
nor do I know whether she will do it.

I feel a joy-blow which kills me
with a love-weapon which takes away
my heart, so that my body shall wither
unless she presently takes pity on me.
Never died man so worthily
of such a sweet ill: such things don't happen.

I never fell asleep so placidly
that my spirit wasn't there,
by the beauty who owns my heart,
towards whom my desire takes its straight path-
And she can well say that her hand slays me,
since she shall never have so faithful a suitor.

A faraway love kills me
and the sweet longing stands by me
and when I plan on going there
as a pious pilgrim,
my will remains here; I don't escape
my death, which won't be otherwise.

Peironet, wader of rivers, tell her
that my heart will transmigrate towards her
and is she likes it, that it behoves her hosting me
since the conversation will be fine.
My godparents doomed me
if love kills me through the one who owns me.

This is a good song, if I didn't make mistakes
and everything in it suits it,
and he who learns it from me
beware not to change anything!
So that they hear it the viscount of Quercy
and the count of Tolouse.

The music is good and, each his own,
all will make my song more pleasant.