Ena enn zafer extraordiner dan Pei Moris ondire enn lema ki ris nou sirtou kan nou retourne depi lot Pei. Se enn lemosion ki nou resanti kan avion pe prepare pou poz lor tarmak. Eski se lamer, kann ouswa saler imin? Ouswa enn melanz tousala. Sa poem par Ramesh Ramdoyal-la enn omaz a Lil Moris kot li finn ne avek tou so bagal lemosion. Enn bouke fler akot lipie poet dan nou Langaz Mama pou rann li omaz.
Come, look, where I was born!
The extended family village of Le Ravin,
a world of its own where everyone is known
from three generations back
down to the toddler riding on his dad’s back.
The air, sweet with juice of freshly crushed cane,
is humming like a hive of bees –
cutting loading fully ripened stalks onto bullock carts
shuttling between harvested fields and smoking mills
rattling rumbling past huffing puffing ol’ steam engine!
Koste vini, koste vinn gete kot mo lonbri antere!
Gran fami Le Ravin
annda baccha
enn lemond an limem
akot sakenn konn so sakenn
depi aster trwa zenerasion
ziska ti baba ki mont kadadak lor so papa
ler, ranpli ar douser kann fek kraze,
pe sant morso kouma enn bagal abey
koupe anbarke saki mir lor saret bef
fer ale vini depi karo ziska moulin
kriye, karote, soufle, ouf, pouf, vie larme masinn-a-vaper
Somewhere here, at the back
of the wood-and-thatch old shack,
follow the track leading to the brink of the ravine.
Here you will hear gurgling of stream
deep down below, breaking into ponds –
thick with pink river shrimp and blue-black prawn –
plunging into sounding cataracts,
hopping and leaping o’er rocks
rocking with voices of washerwomen
and shouts of sundrenched children.
Come, look, where I was born!
Kikpar anba laba,
par deryer vie lakaz lapay
swiv sime ki amenn dan bor ravin
laba akoute ou pou tann larivier pe ronfle
anba, pli ba, kas kontour ek fer ti basin
ranpli ar sevret larivier ek kamaron gro ble
ki ape plonze
sot-sote lor ros
berse par lavwa fam dhobi
ek kriye zanfan ki pe met sek dan soley
Koste vini, koste vinn gete kot mo finn ne!
Come, look, where I was born!
The air is open blue with sun and glare
and the small town, the encircling mountain
like a garland doth wear.
Follow the cobbled street up the grassy foothills.
Here, the blessèd Virgin Mary,
from her mountain pedestral
blesses our good ol’ Port-Louis.
Koste, koste vinn gete kot mo finn ne!
Ler gayar avek larder soley dan lesiel ble
e tipti lavil sere for par so kouronn montagn
ondire enn bouke fler
swiv sime ros ki zigzage dan lerb ziska lao lor kolinn gazone
laba La Vierz Mari
depi so tronn montagn
pe beni nou bon vie Porlwi
How often sure-footed like goats we climbed
the wooded slopes,
resting in trill-filled glades and wasp-nested groves,
and from the top of Signal mountain, search the horizon
for an ocean-crossing galleon,
dreaming of sizzling cities miles beyond.
Come, look, where I was born!
Komien fwa nou pa finn grinp lapant dan bwa
kouma dir kabri
kasiet dan lonbraz pie e lakaz nik mous zonn
e lao depi Montagn Sinio, nou skann lorizon
pou trouv enn bato galeon ki pe travers losean,
an mem tan nou rev pei etranze lwin lot kote brizan
Koste vini, koste vinn gete kot mo finn ne!
Three, four, five years ago, I left the sacred things
once adored and took the road that points West,
the long lonely road of a lifelong quest.
The sea-dark eyes of a girl I loved still wait for me
with a translunar silver that warms her smile.
How many the times I have felt in her presence
the spring of youth gushing into summer romance!
Come, look, where I was born!
Inn gagn trwa, kat, sinkan desela mo finn kit tou saki sakre
e enn tan adore
e finn pran sime ki pwint Les
pou pourswiv enn long sime soliter
pou retrouv lasours
Tifi ki mo ti kontan avek so lizie nwar
kouma lamer
ankor atann mwa
avek enn kouler larzan kouma refle
Lalinn ki fer so sourir resof leker.
Komien fwa mo pa finn santi dan so prezans
enn lafontenn lazenes ki finn vinn enn roman dete
Koste, koste vinn gete kot mo finn ne!
One day, I left my island, in burning anticipation,
and how soon I felt naked against no sun,
but the scorching of myself alone.
How many the times I thought of my island home of crossing
the long grey shadows of the sea, to a past
that I no longer owned, but could no disown.
As time has huddled in my hands, like water in a weir,
I still feel in my fingers the silken tresses of her
long black hair.
And while in my dreams, half-forgotten memories
rise in full flood
I can still pulse in my veins, the summer thunder of her blood.
I dry my tears of five years away from the island of my birth,
the island of unending separations, and fleeting reunions.
Enn zour mo finn kit mo Lil, avek enn lespwar
brilan pou retourne
E vit bien vit mo finn santi mwa touni san saler soley
me brilman mo mem
komien fwa mo pa finn pans mo ti zil pas par gran lonbraz gri lamer,
an direksion enn lepase ki nepli pou mwa, me mo pa fouti rezete.
Kouma letan finn sere koste dan mo lame, kouma dilo dan enn barik,
mo ankor resanti so long tres nwar pe glise ant mo ledwa.
E dan mo rev, souvenir dan lamal memwar
monte kouma debordman
mo pe ankor santi so disan kouma dir loraz lete
pe marse dan mo lavenn
mo souy mo larm sink banane separasion lwin ar mo Lil natal,
Lil enn separasion ki zame pa fini, e enn reinion efemer.
But when my dreams go, my homage to my memories withers,
like a broken branch of blooming peach. And then,
I fight against the house as tall as the stars that has kept me in.
I fight against the shell of neat emotions, and wish I was again
the boy who used to ride the tide and swim with the dolphin.
I love the West that burns red, but I miss the sacred waters
that quenched my thirsty years.
I love the West that exalts the mind
and from age-old shackles that has freed mankind,
but I miss the peace that dwells with simplicity
and binds man close to his kind.
Me kan mo rev disparet,
omaz a mo souvenir deperi,
kouma enn brans ki pe sarye enn pes ki anfler kinn kase. E lerla,
mo lager kont sa lakaz ki osi ot ki zetwal ki finn gard mwa dan so godi-la
mo lager kont enn bagal lemosion
e mo ti avoudre revinn sa garson ki ti kontan
glis lor vag ek naz ek dofin-la.
Mo kontan Lwes ki rouz,
me mo mank dilo sakre
Ki finn nouri mo bann lane aswafe
mo kontan Lwes ki nouri limazinasion
mo kontan Lwes ki finn kas lasenn dan lespri
e finn liber limanite,
Me mo mank sa lape ki ritme avek sinplisite
E gard zom fam pros ar so sanblan.
Tonight, when I finish dreaming in these lines,
sleep will close my eyes until awakening.
Why does the dawn have to come to awake a little
boy from a dream?
Why I couldn’t lie down, quietly as I did, behind the sun,
and wait until he flashed me home to come?
Tonight, even if it’s cold up here,
even if my dreams are misty or clear,
I’m going to hear wild guitars
and the dancing of fire-drums
and all those songs half-forgotten
will once again awaken.
Come, look, where I was born!
Zordi swar kan mo fini reve,
somey pou ferm mo lizie ziska landime.
Kifer bomatin bizin revey enn ti garson ki pe reve?
Kifer mo pa ti kapav alonze, trankil kouma mo ti fer, deryer soley, e aspere
ki li sinial mwa pou retourne?
Azordi swar, mem si freser pe donn bal isi,
mem si mo rev anvlope ar brouyar ouswa kler,
mo pou tann son lagitar letan lontan
e danse lor son tanbour dife,
ek tou sa bagal sante ki anfwi dan mo memwar
pou reviv.
Vini, vinn gete kot mo finn ne!
Referans:
- The Islander’s Song & Other Poems, Ramesh Ramdoyal, 2014
- Écrits sur Maurice, 1708-2019, L’Atelier Littéraire, Librairie Mauricienne Numérique, 2020
Enn tradiksion depi Angle par
Yushry Bibi GONOWREE
Kavinien KARUPUDAYYAN
