Utúlië I Lómë

Utúlië I Lómë

Éli teldavë alámier ter Ambar,

anvoronwa lómë ná sinomë.

Ala! Teluvaryë mi enquë astar.

Ela! Telumessë formenyë rilmar!

I menteviltë lómen hyamelmë.

Culda fantalenen vaitië lómë.

Lá ve cemnë míri siler rilmar,

linquilië vi Silmarilli calimë –

lá yá calafarnë sitë cendanelmë!

Lúsinë Valat fanyarë calyar.

Vi úrin foao lóceo calima –

lutúla elenillo anwa silima –

viler ve findëa linta solmë –

lianen lingala – fána vasar silma –

tieryanna eldilóra lómë.

The Night has come

The stars have finally chimed throughout the world,

the longest night is here.

Hail! It will end within six months.

Behold! In the firmament the northern lights!

For the endless night we pray.

The golden-red cloak has enveloped the night.

Like no earthly gems shine the lights,

multicoloured like the Silmarils bright –

not before such foliage of light we had seen!

The two glowing Valar [Manwë and Varda] the skies illuminate.

Like the blazing of a bright dragon's breath

True silima flowing down from the stars

Fly like a swift plaited wave

By a thin thread hanging – a cloud a shining veil –

The night on her starless path.

I Tella Lelyalla / The Last Traveller

Elenion nárëa únótimë

sírar

tólivëa vílessë

rosselimbar hostar

tambë ná histë

súri yaimië ar amávilar ar undúlië or cúnë huinë

yúlar alarcavë tintilëar

ar i minya apamessë firëar –

saipor erininen purië –

i Araneva saicaima ná firië.

Alcarnarmo

 

Countless flaming stars

glide

flowerlike in the breeze

raindrops gather

as the dusk becomes

winds scream and soar and deluge over bending shadows

embers spangle quickly

and die at the first touch –

boots besmeared with ashes –

the King's funeral pyre is extinguishing.

Rodolphe

 

Horyalairë

 

Horyalairë

Síra autëa Númello,

lévala Rómenna

i quanta rávenna Hrívëo.

Haiku

Today I am leaving the West,

moving Eastward

against the full blast of Winter.

 

I mínalë - The Longing

 

Courte nouvelle en Quenya. L'essai est plutôt concluant au niveau du style, mais la langue reste néanmoins à assouplir et l'exercice difficile. J'espère ne décevoir aucun fan du Seigneur des Anneaux...I tried my best to keep the spirit (and the faith).

Une fois de plus, toute erreur m'est imputable (idem - surtout ? - pour l'anglais !)

I mínalë

Tarnyë i laï lancassë i undumeo, tálunya útancë – ondor undulávina hlollóravë i morinen, núra nún. Harwenyar liptëar, pantëar sívë vantanenyë; cennyë ná néca ar umis i alta silala coronnen ustala i parca nórë. I cirissi yurir núrë ar i lamni oantier andanéya. Calpanya ná cumna, lá usúcië auressen. Uminyë polë naina fírnenya nilmorin an lá haryanyë nírë lestaina.

Lá polenyë cenë i exa lanca i undumeo, mal ahlárienyë nas sanomë, i hayassë, menessë, racina valdëasseo. Ilya ne i hendu poler cenë ná tana alta palpala nairië huineo. Ecë nin harya lúmet nó tulesserya. Mal manan? Nas yando harna sinwavë, tana tulcanenyë. Mal umiryë fírna lá, polinyë ñolë holwërya i súressë, tenya útulunca rangarya i cemessë. Cenasit mis lúmet. Manen te poller návë ta ohtië? Mahtanentë neldë aurin andavë, queletsi tópalar i talan. Së ar lies lá né mahtala mittan parnava nór te ve, henpentë i lië fairieva, varnenta ar írentë cuina. Nilmornya fírier tirala sina intyë. Cotumulma yando fírier mal lá exa cilmë harnet: mapa hya firë manten ulca heruonta. Er saviryë tana yára intyessë ertaina noreo, erya ambalo lutúla or ilya mindon ilya ostossë. Húmi enquë coranári ar apáryentë munta tenna sí.

Sinomë sina nórë hehtaina ló Eru, i endessë muntieo massë er unqualë turë, haryëanyë nimba minë métima cilmë. Carë hya firë. Cenai náro hilyaina húminen nostaleryo i tulala coranárissen, i haryëa firë. Lá minë ná ava lestaina cuina, lá minë. Sina ná i Atar quentë yassë oantenyë mar-ostonya, ertanë nilmorinen i sóra súlimessë rómenna, auri ar lómi unótimarin, massë i móri fanyar né hostainar. Me mahtaner i airi cotumon i soltoner menna ve solmi rauto. Hyastanemmë tiemma i tillenen macilion; témarinta ristaner ar hanyanemmë imma ner linië er írë né acca telwa. Sé ilya telcontalë vantanemmë queletsinna, tópinar sercessë. Tyelimavë i métima cotumo né tarala, halla ar immo-valdëa, epemë, i voronwë nilmor. Minë ló minë nahtanerot, ilya lú nútala ambë núra harwë i nérello fírala.

Ar sí nanyë sinomë, i mentessë ilya nation, námala manë ar ulco martonyallo. I cotumo ná harë. Rama túrë yá haryëas vanwa suliërya, haryala carës ilya ata. 'Mava túrë nás qui lá imma?' cé equétier Atar. 'Ilya hossenta né aqua nahtaner er minë ohtaren.' Ahárientë munta.

Nányë sinomë. Sé métima. Yétalanye, ohta henduryatsë. Náro aistawa. Yando nányë aistawa. Lá ecë nin enquelë. Hepenyë súlinya maica ve macilnya. Ma nás honnya hya i alta cúma ni cana ya ná palpala ve únótimë rámar? Nányë sinomë.

***

The longing

I stand on the very edge of the abyss, my feet unsure – stones swallowed soundlessly by the dark, deep down. My wounds bleed, re-open as I walked; my vision blurs and it is not because of the great shining orb scorching the land dry. The cracks run deep and animals have left a long time ago. My gourd is empty; I haven't drunk in days. I cannot weep for my dead friends for I have no tears left.

I cannot see the other edge of the abyss, but I have heard it is there, in the distance, somewhere, deprived of importance. All that is left for the eye to see is that great pulsating expanse of darkness. I may have a few hours left before his coming. But what for? He too is wounded for sure, I have seen to that. But he isn't dead, no, I can smell his stench in the wind, feel his unsteady pace in the ground. Perhaps less than a few hours. How could they be so pugnacious? They had fought for three days on end, dead bodies covering the ground. He and his people were not fighting for some patch of barren land like them, they were preserving the peoples' freedom, their safety and their desire to live. My friends have died defending these ideas. Our foes have died too but they had no other choice: conquer or die at the hands of their wilful master. He still clings onto that old idea of a unified land, of a single banner floating over every tower in every town. Six thousand years and they have learnt nothing yet.

Here in this godforsaken land, in the middle of nowhere where only death prevails, I have to face one last choice. Do or die. Even if he must be followed by thousands of his kind in the coming years, this one still has to die. Not one must be left alive, not a single one. This is what Father had said when I left my home town, joined my friends in the long march to the East, for innumerable days and nights, where the black clouds were gathered. We fought the seas of enemies that surged against us like waves of metal. We hacked our way at the tip of our swords; their lines grew thinner and we realised ours were sparse only when it was too late. At every step we stumbled on a corpse, drenched in blood. Finally the only enemy left was standing, tall and proud, before us, the long-standing friends. One by one he brought them down, each time taking a deeper wound from the dying man.

And now I am here, at the end of all things, judging good and evil on the scales of my fate. The enemy is near. To claim a victory that has lost its meaning, having to do it all over again. 'Whose victory is it if not ours?' would have said Father. 'Their entire army but for one foot soldier has been wiped out.' They have understood nothing.

He is here. At long last. Looking at me, war in his eyes. He looks dreadful. I must not look any better. I must not fail again. I must keep my spirits as sharp as my sword. Is it my heart or the great void behind me that is beating like countless wings? He is here.

Alcarnarmo

Lindalë an i lantaner i ohtassë

Lantainë lá exë lá qualmenen,
A, yondor nerion caitainë arta i palari!
sercelya evéuië faila casta,
ara nirmë sa lá hehtuvalmë úquétina.
A, yondor tollo, nehtainë failassen,
ucúnielyë i sangar monieo,
anámbielyë falquaninë quárilya casintannar;
ve etelehtielyë oira moialellon.
A, yondor alta nóreo, yondor léra lieo,
úquén exë pollen rahta apairë,
úquén exë pollen ovanta i mácier aqua mí anta,
mal qualmë cernë nessë cuililyë.
A, yondor aranen yeryaina as i yenta yaltë loaron,
elyë harë tuller i saurë hormar,
elyë pelehtaner i tauri angë ranquion,
termanelyë erië ar caurelónar imíca únótima liyúmë.
A, yondor atario nyényë estelimmoryassë,
yondor nero quétala er orolaitaleron ar poicë selmaron,
írë hísië ar sai úfantaner queletsilya imíca cotumorilyon,
nolyanenyë sa fairië ner paityaner lungavë.
Ai, yondinya, úvalyë racinë ú noireo,
ar noirilyon úvar racinë i quettar cardalyon,
ar apairinyon nortuvar endanyassë,
ar sucuvanyë i yulmallon nucumniéo ar nyéreo.


Song for those who fell in the war

Vanquished by none other than death,
O, sons of men strewn across the plains!
your blood has served a just cause,
a noble deed that we shall not leave unspoken.
O, sons of a remote island, slain for justice,
you have conquered the throngs of darkness,
battered your sworded hands on their heads
you have saved us from eternal throes.
O, sons of a great land, sons of a free people,
None other could achieve victory,
None other could meet the slayings fully in the face,
But death reaped your young lives.
O, sons of a king weary with the yoke of years,
you alone did approach the befouled legions,
you alone did hew the forests of iron arms,
you stood alone within the multitudes.
O, sons of a father crying over his dignity,
sons of a man speaking only of values and ideals,
when mist and fire unveiled your bodies among your enemies’,
I learnt that duty and freedom had a heavy price.
O, my sons, you shall not be left without a grave,
and your graves shall not miss the words of your deeds,
and your deeds shall dwell in my heart,
and I shall drink of the cups of humbleness and sorrow.

Sina ëa nórë vanesseva

Sina ëa nórë vanesseva, sina ëa mana cenenyë,

Paluina nye lá ar amba i helletëanna;

Sina ëa i nórë epeatarion ar autuvanyes.

Marto et tulyuvanyë i rávanna,

Maranwë caruvanyë telconta ettelen tier,

Lúmë caruvanyë únolya, se lúmer,

Nórë sina sa pála nu messimë talinyë,

Ar se exë lúmer lá milyuvanyë már –

Mal istanyë sa rimbë lumbë hayassi pella,

Oronti luini as ringë amatírë pella,

Pallë ar vercassi síri ar ëari pella,

Alta latini laiquë vandaron pella,

Mahtalepalari usquië serceo ar nimbeo pella –

Istanyë sa vanessë lá larta mí hendi nerio

Mal marë mí annurë cilyar endo,

Istanyë sa sina ëa atarenórenya, yassen nenyë nóna,

Hápina melmenen ar tévlenen, i níra lelyanen ar lemyanen ;

Istanyë si sina ëa nórë ve lá exë (sa) cenuvanyë,

Ar sa sinomë nortuvanyë, as i astor ar i axor atarinyon.

This is a land of beauty, this is what I see,

Spread beyond me and to the horizon;

This is the land of my ancestors and I shall leave it.

Fate will lead me out into the wild,

Fate will have me tread foreign paths,

Time will have me forget, sometimes,

This land that throbs under my youthful feet,

And at other times I shall not (even) long for home –

But I know that beyond many weary distances,

Beyond mountains blue with cold promises,

Beyond wide and wild rivers and seas,

Beyond great plains of green expectations,

Beyond battlefields reeking of blood and sadness –

I know that beauty lasteth not in the eyes of men

But dwells in the heart’s deepest recesses,

I know that this is my fatherland, in which I grew up,

Fostered by love and hate, by the will to leave and to remain;

I know that this is a land like no other I will see,

And that there will I remain, with the ashes and bones of my fathers.

R.B. 17/12/06