Wednesday, October 31, 2007

Nanna's Lied Translation

Found Here:

Nanna's Song:

Gentlemen, with seventeen years of age under my belt
I came up on the Love Market,
and I have learned much.
Much of it gave evil,
yet that was the game,
but, I have a lot to be blamed for.
(When all is said and done, I'm only a human being, too.)

Thanks be to God that it all goes by so quickly,
the love as well as the grief, too.
Where are the tears of yesterday evening?
Where are the snows of yesteryear?

As one goes through the years
it is easier in the Love Market, to be sure,
and you embrace the multitudes there.
But feelings
become astonishingly cool
when one doesn't ration them.
(When all is said and done, each reserve must come to an end.)

Thanks be to God that it all goes by so quickly,
the love as well as the grief, too.
Where are the tears of yesterday evening?
Where are the snows of yesteryear?

And even when one learns the trade really well
in the Fairground of Love:
to change desire into small change
is never easy.
Now, it is achieved.
Yet meanwhile, one grows older, as well.
(When all is said and done, one can't stay seventeen forever.)

Thanks be to God that it all goes by so quickly,
the love as well as the grief, too.
Where are the tears of yesterday evening?
Where are the snows of yesteryear?

Authorship
Translation from German to English copyright © 2004 by Sean Mabrey

5 comments:

val said...

"Where are the snows of yesteryear?" That used to be quite a theme. I remember it from the 15th century French poet Francois Villon, "Ou sont les neiges d'antan?" (Ballade des Dames du Temps Jadis). The French chanteur Georges Brassens turned it into a song. Are you familiar with him? He's no Kurt Weill, but he's good and very witty.

Gunga Dean said...

I'm not familiar with Villon. I do know I've heard 'snows of yesteryear" elsewhere but can think of where.

But 15th century prose is my cup of tea. I love all things Medieval.

val said...

Brassens wrote a song called "Le Moyenageux" which is a play on words - man of the middle ages and middle-aged man, a translation of whose first verse is roughly, "I was born, not even a bastard, 5 centuries late. Forgive me, Prince, if I'm fucking middle-aged." (Sounds better in French). Don't know what Prince he's referring to, could be Villon himself. He was a bit of an outlaw as well as a poet, and kept on excaping being hanged by things like amnesties granted by the king. Fascinating character.

Victoria said...

I think the point is that Brecht knew of Francois Villon.

Gunga Dean said...

Vladmir Korniev kills it!