Текст и перевод песни Miquel Pujadó - Cançó de Les Quatre Cançons

Cançó de Les Quatre Cançons

En trobar-me un rossinyol que anava a França,
Ja passada la frontera del Portús,
Vaig sentir al fons de mi una esgarrifança
I vaig dir-li, posant cara de pallús:
"Rossinyol, sigues bon nano i encomana'm
A la mare, que ara viu allà on vas tu.
No et pots perdre, fa espardenyes de bon cànem
Al costat mateix del centre Pompidó."
Ell que em mira despectiu i em diu: "Andouille!
Comment oses-tu me parler ce patois?
Si jamais on se revoit, gare à tes couilles,
J'ai le bec dur et pointu et j'plaisante pas."
Dit això, fa un vol rasant i, amb punteria,
Deixa anar sobre el meu cap -i arriba a port-
Una tifa xovinista que podia
Com un litre de Chanel al rocafort.

Què se n'ha fet, dels rossinyols
Dels nostres avis,
Que refilant fonien dols
-Diuen els savis-?
Si el temps ens nega tot perdó,
Que almenys ens deixi la cançó!

Quan l'Amèlia jeia al llit greument malalta,
Entre dames i servents i noble gent,
I amb les roses de la febre arran de galta,
M'hi acostava per sentir el seu testament:
"Tres castells jo tinc a França, els tres en venda,
I ja m'he polit les joies del comtat
Per pagar els meus creditors, per pagar Hisenda,
I el que no he venut ho tinc hipotecat.
Com les pobres ja sabem marxar soletes
I de mi ningú no n'ha de treure un clau,
Ja us podeu anar, carronyers, a fer punyetes,
I el darrer, per cert, que apagui el llum, si us plau.
I vós, mare, el meu marit que tant us flipa
Ja el podeu guardar per sempre al vostre llit.
Com que em moro sifilítica, però tipa,
Puc jurar-vos que us el passo ben servit!"

Què se n'ha fet, dels testaments
Dels nostres avis,
Que els bons hereus feien contents
-Diuen els savis-?
Si el temps...

"Adéu, clavell morenet..." és la tonada
Que ell cantava arrossegat per dos civils.
Jo vaig dir-me: "Els bandolers són gent honrada
Que caldria vacunar contra els bacils."
I m'hi acosto amb un garrot, tot fent-me l'orni,
Fins a ser a prop dels polls verdosos repel·lents.
D'un gest decidit, els faig saltar el tricorni
I els esclafo els dos cervells inexistents.
"Pots marxar" -li dic- "Ets lliure". Però emmudeixo
En sentir el petó glaçat d'una arma al nas
I la veu del lladregot que em diu: "No em queixo
Pel que has fet, i t'agraeixo el que faràs."
Va afaitar-me un bon rellotge, la cartera,
La camisa, un queixal d'or, i va fugir
Tot deixant-me al marge de la carretera,
Ben lligat i emmordassat, com un cretí.

Què se n'ha fet, dels bandolers
Dels nostres avis,
Que no robaven per diners
-Diuen els savis-?
Si el temps ens nega tot perdó,
Que almenys ens deixi la cançó!

I vaig fer-me empresonar en passar per Lleida,
I em fermaren junt amb d'altres vint-i-dos,
Convençut que una Odissea, que una Eneida
Em cridava des del llòbrec calabós.
Jo que trec i dicto una cançó inspirada
I començo a declamar-la a ple pulmó,
Esperant que la princesa, enamorada,
Vindrà a veure qui és el seu dolç trobador.
Però qui arriba, lletja, bruta, escabellada,
És l'obesa filla de l'escarceller
Tot bramant: "Ja m'has fotut la migdiada!"
I brandant una navalla de barber.
Ara em diuen que les forques són parades
I que és meu, tot meu, l'honor d'anar al davant
Per fer néixer, amb les darreres sacsejades,
La mandràgora que d'altres tastaran.

Què se n'ha fet, de les presons
Dels nostres avis,
Plenes d'intrigues i passions
-Diuen els savis-?
Si el temps ens nega tot perdó,
Que almenys ens deixi la cançó!

Song of the Four Songs

Upon encountering a nightingale headed for France,
Having already crossed the border at Le Perthus,
I felt a shiver deep inside me
And I said to him, putting on a foolish face:
"Nightingale, be a good lad and give my regards
To my mother, who now lives where you are going.
You can't miss her, she makes good hemp espadrilles
Right next to the Pompidou Center."
He looked at me scornfully and said: "Andouille!
How dare you speak to me in this patois?
If we ever meet again, watch out for your balls,
I have a hard and sharp beak and I'm not joking."
Saying that, he swooped down and, with precision,
Let go over my head -and reached his target-
A chauvinistic turd that could
Like a liter of Chanel on Roquefort."

What has become of the nightingales
Of our grandparents,
Who, whistling, poured out sweetness
-The wise men say-?
If time denies us all forgiveness,
May it at least leave us the song!

When Amelia lay in bed seriously ill,
Among ladies and servants and noble people,
And with the roses of fever close to her cheek,
I approached her to hear her testament:
"I have three castles in France, all three for sale,
And I have already polished the jewels of the county
To pay my creditors, to pay Hisenda,
And what I haven't sold is mortgaged.
As the poor already know how to leave alone
And no one has to take a nail out of me,
You can all go screw yourselves, vultures,
And the last one, by the way, turn off the light, please.
And you, mother, my husband who freaks you out so much
You can keep him forever in your bed.
Since I am dying syphilitic, but classy,
I can swear to you that I pass it on well served!"

What has become of the testaments
Of our grandparents,
With which the good heirs were content
-The wise men say-?
If time...

"Goodbye, dark carnation..." is the tune
That he sang as he was dragged along by two civilians.
I said to myself: "Highwaymen are honorable people
That should be vaccinated against bacilli."
And I approached him with a stick, pretending to be deaf,
Until I was close to the repulsive greenish balls.
With a decisive gesture, I make their cocked hats jump
And crush their two nonexistent brains.
"You can go" -I tell him- "You're free." But I go silent
Hearing the icy kiss of a gun on my nose
And the voice of the thief who says to me: "I don't complain
For what you have done, and I thank you for what you will do."
He shaved me a good watch, my wallet,
My shirt, a gold tooth, and ran away
Leaving me on the side of the road,
Well tied and gagged, like a moron.

What has become of the highwaymen
Of our grandparents,
Who did not steal for money
-The wise men say-?
If time denies us all forgiveness,
May it at least leave us the song!

And I got myself imprisoned while passing through Lleida,
And they locked me up along with twenty-two others,
Convinced that an Odyssey, that an Aeneid
Was calling me from the gloomy dungeon.
I who take out and dictate an inspired song
And begin to declaim it at the top of my lungs,
Hoping that the princess, in love,
Will come to see who her sweet troubadour is.
But who arrives, ugly, dirty, disheveled,
Is the obese daughter of the jailer
Shouting: "You've ruined my nap!"
And brandishing a barber's razor.
Now they tell me that the pitchforks are stopped
And that the honor of going to the front is mine, all mine
To give birth, with the last shakes,
To the mandrake that others will taste.

What has become of the prisons
Of our grandparents,
Full of intrigue and passion
-The wise men say-?
If time denies us all forgiveness,
May it at least leave us the song!