The Democratic Republic of Poetry
MarcabruTroubadoursProsodyContact UsAnamorphisms

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A l'alena del vent doussa
Que Dieus nos tramet, no sai d'on,
Ai lo cor de joy sazion
Contra la doussor del frescum
Quant li prat son vermelh e groc.

Belh m'es quan son ombriu li mon
E l'auzel desotz la verdon
Mesclon lurs critz ab lo chanton,
E quascus, ab la votz que an,
Jauzis son parelh en son loc.

De sai sen un pauc de feton
Que lai torno·l pel al bussa,
Qu'encaritz son li guasta-pa,
Quais per els son gardat li don,
Qu'estrayns mas lo senher no·y toc.

Si·l gilos s'en van seguran
E li guardador jauzion,
Ges egual no chant e respon!
Qu'ilh van a clardat e ses lum,
Quan vols t'en pren ab eis lo broc.

D'aquestz sap Marcabrus qui son,
Que ves luy no van cobeitan
Li guandilh vil e revolum:
Gilos que·s fan baut guazalhan
Meton nostras molhers en joc.

Greu cug mais que ja lur don
Aquist soldat uay qu'estraitz pla!
Seguon la natura del ca,
Pus lo guos ro e·l lebriers gron
Desus ves del plat bufa·l foc.

Qu'entr' els non a clau ni meia
Qu'els non aion del plus preon
E del frug lo prim e·l segon,
Cist fan la malvestatz rebon
Quan nos fan donar non per oc.

Gilos pus de sa foudat bon
Enfla, ades, enfla e refon!
Saber deu qu'a·l vetz a puta,
Si non, digua que mays non poc.

In the breath of the gentle breeze
that god sends us, I don't know whence,
my heart is ravished with joy,
faced with the sweet freshness,
when the meadows are yellow and vermilion.

I love when the mountains are shady
and the birds under the greenery
mix their calls with their songs,
and when each, with its own voice,
pleases its partner in its nest.

From here, I smell some foul odor,
because there, they turn the hair to the bush,
the spoilsports who go one better:
by them the ladies are kept, almost,
so that no stranger, except the master of the house, touches them.

While the jealous go away reassured
and the guardians are happy,
I, of course, sing a different tune,
because they go about in daylight and in darkness:
take as many of them as you want for yourself –drink them straight from the pitcher!

Marcabru knows who these are:
it is not towards him they turn their lust,
the guardians vile and twisted;
jealous forming a hardy association with them
bring our women into play.

I hardly mean, now, to give them gifts,
for I believe to be well rid of this madness!
They follow the nature of the dog:
just as the mastiff barks and the sighthound growls,
they fan the fire above the dish.

Against them there's no key or means
to prevent them from having what is hidden deepest,
and the first fruit as well as the second.
They make evil bounce around
when they make our answer no instead of yes.

The jealous, when his folly puts him out of himself,
swells, then deflates and pays his dues;
He must know when he's seen a whore,
otherwise, let him say that he never could.