Poeter.se logo icon
Redan medlem?   Logga in




 
Jag tycker inte om nån av de officiella översättningarna på Viktor Rydbergs Tomten. Så jag skrev en ny. Detta är alltså hela boken.


The tomte by Viktor Rydberg

Deep in the grip of midwinter's cold,
the stars both glimmer and sparkle.
All are asleep in each farm so old,
deep in this midnight's darkle.
A pale moon quietly moves its shine
snow gleams white on fir and pine,
snow gleams white on the lake.
Only the tomte is awake.

Standing, in gray, by the barn so vast,
gray by the drifted snow,
gazing, like many winters past,
up at the moon's chill glow,
then at the forest where fir and cone
circle the farm in a dusky tone,
mulling, although it's for naught,
over a riddling thought.

Moves his hand through beard and hair,
shakes both head and gear ---
"no, this Riddle I cannot bear,
there is no answer, I fear" ---
digresses, grudgingly, in a hurry,
he shrugs at this annoying worry,
turns, in spite, by his command,
turns to work the task at hand.

Storehouse and toolshed progresses his plight,
checking the locks of all ---
the cows are dreaming in midnight's light,
summer dreams in each stall;
free of harness and whip and rein,
the old farm horse' dream will wane:
the manger he's drowsing over
fills with fragrant clover; ---

Peeks the fence where sheep and lambs
house together in silent rest;
chickens are next, where the rooster stands
high above the straw filled nest;
Burrowed in straw, hearty and hale,
Karo wakens and wags his tail,
as if to say --- "old friend,
partners we are to the end" ---

And last, into the cottage gleam,
see how the housefolk fare,
he knows full well the strong esteem
they feel for his faithful care;
He tiptoes into the children's beds,
silently peers at their tousled heads,
there's no mistaking his pleasure,
this is his greatest treasure.

Now that he's seen them, father and son,
kin throughout many years,
sleeping, so small, in a tiny bun,
wondering how one appears.
Families came and families went,
blossomed and aged, a lifetime spent.
And whatever happens then?
Here is that Riddle again.

Slowly he turns to the barnyard loft,
his fortress, his home, to rest,
high in the mow, the hay is soft,
Near by the swallos's nest.
The nest is empty, but then comes spring,
when birds mid leaves and blossoms sing,
she'll return through its gate,
followed by her dinky mate.

Then she will have more tales to tell,
from all journeys afar,
similar to how the tomte dwell,
on the Riddle of how we are.
Now through cracks in the haymow wall,
the moon brightens the tomte, beard and all.
The beard shimmers through the chinks,
the tomte ponders and thinks.

Still is the forest and surrounding clime
locked in this wintry year,
though a distant waterfall chime,
it whispers and sighs in his ear.
The tomte listens and, half in dream,
thinks he can hear time's endless stream,
and wonders, where is it bound?
Where is its source to be found?

Deep in the grip of the midwinter cold,
the stars both glimmer and sparkle.
All are asleep in each farm so old,
well in this mornings's darkle.
A pale moon moves to end its shine
snow gleams white on fir and pine,
snow gleams white on the lake.
Only the tomte is awake.




Bunden vers av Briskbread
Läst 105 gånger och applåderad av 1 personer
Publicerad 2023-11-17 15:45



Bookmark and Share

  > Nästa text
< Föregående

Briskbread
Briskbread