Jeo no ‘ippo torero – No toreador was I

Antoninu Mura Ena, bete poete, cun sa poesia «Jeo no ‘ippo torero» at marcadu su Noighentos poèticu de nois sardos. B’at de si nde pranghere isceti a serare sa fortza de custa poesia e canta Sardigna brotat dae issa. (Pro sos sardos chi non connoschent su sardu e chi narant chi tocat mègius de connoschere s’inglesu, bene, in onore a issos imbetze de ponnere sa tradutzione de sa poesia in italianu apo seberadu de la ponnere in inglesu. Cun saludos medas…)

Jeo no ‘ippo torero

Jeo ‘ippo Juanne ‘Arina.

Luvulesu, pitzinnu minore

in tempus de laore, a manzanu e a sero,

de voes e vaccas punghitore.

Ma no ‘ippo torero.

Jeo no so mortu

a sas chimbe de ‘ortadie

(che a Ignacio Sànchez).

Jeo so mortu a s’arveschere

in su creschere.

No b’haiat pro me in s’arena

un’isporta ‘e carchina vattuta

a isterrita, supra su sambene.

A mie no m’han vattutu

unu savanu biancu.

Unu voe m’haiat incorratu

in sa jaca ‘e s’ortu.

Ohi! Chi so mortu.

A mamma happo cramatu

a sa jaca ‘e s’ortu.

***

Mamma est vennita a s’ortu.

Apporrimi sa manu

e ‘ocaminde, mama, dae custa mala cama

de sa terra ‘e s’ortu.

No mi lasses in terra

che in fattu ‘e gama.

Cramami a babbu, mamma,

chi torret dae gherra…

-Itzu meu galanu,

no lu potto cramare.

Ca babbu est mortu in mare,

e tue sese orfanu,

itzu meu galanu.

Tue lu des contare

in donzi terra e portu

chi hat tentu malu irgrabbu,

itzu meu galanu.

Tue lu des contare

chi babbu est mortu in mare

in donzi terra e portu

chi babbu in mare est mortu.

***

Ohi sa calentura, sa calentura|

Unu ‘ilu luchente mi porria caente

babbu, su mortu in mare,

mi lu porriat caente a m’ampulare

a caminu ‘e chelos.

M’ampulaiat a fiancu

unu zovanu ‘ertu,

su solopattu abbertu

de cristallu biancu

e un’ispada in manos.

E una ‘erta in s’imbene

che i sa mea.

L’apompiaio jeo,

m’apompiaiat isse:

-Eres herido? Sisse.

-Eres torero? Nosse.

Vostè juchet in s’imbene una ferta

abberta, che i sa mea.

-Vostè es torero?

-Yo soy un rey de leones.

Gloria de Andalusìa

-Tu eres torero?

Nosse, vostè. Jeo no ‘ippo torero.

Jeo ‘ippo Juanne ‘Arina,

pitzinnu minore.

A manzanu e a sero,

in tempus de laore,

de voes e de vaccas punghitore.

Ma no ‘ippo torero.

In sa jacca ‘e s’ortu

unu ‘oe m’haiat incorratu:

ma no ‘ippo torero.

-Calla, ninito,calla.

Tu eres torero!

Lo mas grande torero sardegnolo

desmayado pequeno.

Subimos juntos a los toros celestes.

Toma tu mano pequena

a esto herido leon,

torero sardegnolito

ninito del corazon.

No toreador was I

Juanne ‘Arina was I
boy herdsman of Lula.
In the sowing season, morning and evening
driver of oxen and a few cows.
No toreador was I.

I didn’t die
one afternoon at five
(as did Ignacio Sànchez).
at daybreak I died
during my boyhood.

For me, in the arena, no
bag of lime was thrown
down, like a blanket, over blood.
For me they brought out no
white sheet.

Gored by an ox
at the farmyard gate.
Oh! how I died.
To my mother I cried
at the farmyard gate.

***

My mother came by the yard.
“Give me your hand
and set me free, mammy,
from the pain that burns me
down on the yard floor.
Don’t leave me in this dirt,
under the herd.
Call father for me, mammy,
he’s back from the war…”

– “Oh fair son of mine,
He here I can’t call.
Your dad’s dead at sea,
you’re an orphan, oh
fair son of mine.

“Go out and tell
in every nation and port
the misfortune you’ve met
fair son of mine.
Go out and tell
your dad’s dead at sea,
in every nation and port,
at sea, your dad’s dead.”

***

Oh! such burning, what burning!
Bring me a shining hot thread
at sea my dad’s dead,
and help me to climb
the path to the skies.

Yet by my side arose
a wounded young man
with an open waistcoat
white as crystal
and a sword in his hand.
And a wound in the groin
like mine.

I looked at him,
he looked back at me:
– Está herido? – Yes sir.
– Eres torero? – No sir.

You, sir, have a wound in the groin
open, like mine.

– Are you a toreador?
-Yo soy un río de leones.
Gloria de Andalusia.
Tú eres torero?

– No, sir, no toreador was I.
Juanne ‘Arina was I,
boy herdsman.
Morning and evening,
in the sowing season
driver of oxen and a few cows.
But, no toreador was I.
At the farmyard gate
gored by an ox.
But, no toreador was I.

-Calla, niñito, calla.
Tú eres torero!
El mas grande torero sardeñolo
demasiado pequeño.

Subimos juntos a los toros celestes.
Toma tu mano pequeña
a este herido leon,
torero sardeñolito
niñito del corazón.

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