Un nino preguntou-me L que ye la yerba? al stender-me
dues manadas deilha;
Cumo le iba you a respunder al nino?... you que, melhor
do que el, nun sei l que ye.
Cuido que debe de ser l pendon de la mie çposiçon, tecido
cun un material berde de sprança.
Ou supongo que seia l lhienço de l Senhor,
Ua oufierta prefumada i ua lhembráncia deixada caier
d'aperpósito,
Cul nome de l duonho nua punta qualquiera, para que
se beia, se mire i se diga De quien?
Ou supongo que la própia yerba seia un garotico...
l nino girado pula begetaçon.
Ou un heiroglifo cul mesmo feitiu,
I que quier dezir: arrebento de modo armano an regiones
lhargas i an regiones streitas
Creço tanto antre las raças negras cumo antre las raças brancas,
Antre ls Kanuck, antre ls Tuckahoe, ls cungressistas,
ls aframaricanos, dou-le l mesmo, i recibo deilhes l mesmo.
Talbeç sudes ne l peito de ls moços,
Talbeç se ls houbiras coincido, ls houbiras amado,
Talbeç bengas de ls bielhos ou de ls garoticos arrincados antes
de tiempo als cuolhos de las mais,
I eiqui tu sós l cuolho de las mais.
de las bielhas mais,
Mais scura que las barbas çqueloradas de ls bielhos,
Scura para salir de l burmeilho, coçado cielo de la boca.
Antendo, al fin, tanta lhéngua falada,
I antendo que nun sálen de l cielo de la boca por algue rezon.
i an moças muortos,
I ls amentares an bielhos i mais, i an garoticos antes de tiempo
arrincados a sous cuolhos.
L que cuidas que le passou als moços i als bielhos?
I l que cuidas que le passou a las mulhieres i als ninos?
La mais pequeinha pítula amostra, bendo bien, que
la muorte nun eisiste,
I, se algue beç eisistiu, lhebou muito para alhá de la bida i,
na fin, nun spera detené-la,
I acabou-se ne l sfergante an que la bida apareciu.
Todo crece i camina palantre... i nada zaparece,
I morrer-se ye çfrente de l que se cuida, i mais feliç.
Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass - Song of Myself, 6.
Traduçon para mirandés de Fracisco Niebro
[an anglés:
A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child?. . . .I do not know what it
is any more than he.
I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful
green stuff woven.
Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropped,
Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we
may see and remark, and say Whose?
Or I guess the grass is itself a child. . . .the produced babe
of the vegetation.
Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow
zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the
same, I receive them the same.
And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.
Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them;
It may be you are from old people and from women, and
from offspring taken soon out of their mother's laps,
And here you are the mother's laps.
This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old
mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.
O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues!
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths
for nothing.
I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men
and women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring
taken soon out of their laps.
What do you think has become of the young and old men?
What do you think has become of the women and
children?
They are alive and well somewhere;
The smallest sprouts show there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait
at the end to arrest it,
And ceased the moment life appeared.
All goes onward and outward. . . .and nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and
Luckier.]
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