Текст и перевод песни Joan Manuel Serrat - Canco Per a en Joan Salvat Papasseit

Canco Per a en Joan Salvat Papasseit

No sóc modest
Estic enamorat
D'aquests ulls meus petits
Perquè esguarden el lluny
I del meu front tan alt
Que ho és per tant que pensa
No vull agrair res, perquè no he tingut mestre

Jo no prometo res
Només camino
Mullant la ploma al cor
Que és on cal sucar l'eina
Jo no sé el que em proposo
Perquè el tenir un propòsit no és fer feina

Ja no vull allistar-me
Sota de cap bandera
De la divina acràcia
Seré ara el glossador
De l'acràcia impossible
En la vida dels homes
Que no senten desig d'una era millor

I el que pensin de mi
No m'interessa gens
No m'interessa gens
No m'interessa gens

Va entrar al món per la porta de servei
Buit el seu bagul
I un pedaç al cul
Era un bagul de paper que va omplir el temps
Les dones i el port
L'amor i la mort
Era un bagul que s'endreçava poc a poc
I esdevenia un vers cada record

Per a ell la meuca es posava la roba de quan fou verge
I volaven les gavines amb les plomes de diumenge sí
Per a ell els vaixells bufaven una, dos i tres vegades
I s'estimava una parella en qualsevol cantonada sí
Per a ell miolaven els gats a la lluna, en els terrats sí
Per a ell s'obrien vermelles les promeses i els clavells sí

Per a un home prim
De rostre verdós
De llavis humits
I molt llargs els dits
Per tastar millor les dones

I no era modest
I estava enamorat
Dels seus ullets petits
Que esguardaven el lluny
I del seu front tant alt
De tant com ell pensava

I no agraïa res a qui res no li ensenyava

I el que penseu d'això
No m'interessa gens
No m'interessa gens
No m'interessa gens

Song for Joan Salvat-Papasseit

I'm not modest, my love.
I'm in love
With these small eyes of mine
Because they gaze into the distance
And with my forehead, so high
Because it holds so much thought
I don't want to thank anyone, because I've had no teacher

I promise nothing, my dear.
I only walk
Dipping my pen in my heart
Which is where the tool must be soaked
I don't know what I'm aiming for
Because having a purpose isn't doing the work

I no longer want to enlist
Under any flag
Of divine anarchy
I will now be the glossator
Of impossible anarchy
In the lives of men
Who feel no desire for a better era

And what they think of me
Doesn't interest me at all
Doesn't interest me at all
Doesn't interest me at all

He entered the world through the service entrance
His suitcase empty
And a patch on his backside
It was a paper suitcase that time filled up
Women and the port
Love and death
It was a suitcase that was tidied little by little
And each memory became a verse

For him, the whore put on the clothes from when she was a virgin
And the seagulls flew with their Sunday feathers, yes
For him, the ships blew their horns once, twice, and thrice
And he loved a couple on any street corner, yes
For him, cats meowed at the moon, on the rooftops, yes
For him, promises and carnations opened red, yes

For a thin man
With a greenish face
With moist lips
And very long fingers
To better taste women

And he wasn't modest
And he was in love
With his little eyes
That gazed into the distance
And with his forehead so high
From thinking so much

And he didn't thank anyone who taught him nothing

And what you think of this
Doesn't interest me at all
Doesn't interest me at all
Doesn't interest me at all