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It seems that out of battle I escaped Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped Through granites which titanic wars had groined. Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned, Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred. Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared With piteous recognition in fixed eyes, Lifting distressful hands as if to bless. And no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan. "Strange friend," I said, "here is no cause to mourn." "None", said the other, "save the undone years, The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours, Was my life also; I went hunting wild After the wildest beauty in the world, For by my glee might many men have laughed, And of my weeping something had been left, Which must die now. I mean the truth untold, The pity of war, the pity war distilled. Now men will go content with what we spoiled. Or, discontent, boil boldly, and be spilled. They will be swift with swiftness of the tigress, None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress. Miss we the march of this retreating world Into vain citadels that are not walled. Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels I would go up and wash them from sweet wells, Even from wells we sunk too deep for war, Even from the sweetest wells that ever were. I am the enemy you killed, my friend. I knew you in this dark; for so you frowned Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed. I parried; but my hands were loath and cold. Let us sleep now..."
About the headline (FAQ)
The text shown is a variant of another text. [ View differences ]
It is based on
- a text in English by Wilfred Owen (1893 - 1918), "Strange meeting", appears in Wheels, 1919: Fourth Cycle, first published 1919
Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive):
- [ None yet in the database ]
This text (or a part of it) is used in a work
- by (Edward) Benjamin Britten (1913 - 1976), "Libera me", op. 66 no. 6, published 1961 [soprano, tenor, baritone, satb chorus, boys' chorus, orchestra, chamber orchestra, organ], from War Requiem, no. 6
Other available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):
- CAT Catalan (Català) (Salvador Pila) , copyright © 2016, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
- FRE French (Français) (Pierre Mathé) , "Libera me", copyright © 2015, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]
This text was added to the website: 2008-01-08
Line count: 33
Word count: 267
Em semblà que m’havia escapat de la batalla per dessota un túnel fosc i profund, perforat de fa molt temps a través de granits que guerres titàniques havien excavat. I per tant, allà també, un amuntegament de dorments gemegava, massa immersos en llurs pensaments o en la mort per ser destorbats. Llavors, al palpejar-los, un féu un salt i m’esguardà amb pietós reconeixement en els seus ulls fixos, aixecant les mans adolorides com si volgués beneir-me. I cap canó colpejava ni feia gemegar els conductes. “Amic desconegut” jo li digué, “aquí no hi ha cap motiu per afligir-se.” “Cap ni un”, digué l’altre, “si no fos per els anys perduts, per la desesperança. Sigui quina sigui la teva esperança, així era també la meva vida; jo anava bojament a l’encalç de la bellesa més fantàstica d’aquest món, molta gent ha pogut riure de la meva gaubança i dels meus plors quelcom ha restat que ara ha de morir. Vull dir la veritat que no s’ha dit, la desgràcia de la guerra, la desgràcia que la guerra destil•la. Ara els homes restaran contents amb el que hem destruït o malcontents, llur sang bullirà i es vessarà. Seran ràpids amb l’agilitat d’una tigressa, cap d’ells trencarà files, per bé que les nacions abandonin el progrés. Evitem la marxa d’aquest món en retirada vers vanes ciutadelles sense muralles. Llavors, quan força sang hagi encallat les rodes de llurs carruatges, aniré cap dalt i les rentaré amb aigua fresca de pous, àdhuc de pous que massa profunds per la guerra perforàrem, àdhuc dels pous més frescos que mai hi ha hagut. Jo sóc l’enemic que vares matar, amic meu. T’he reconegut en aquesta foscúria; car em feies mala cara ahir mentre clavaves la baioneta i mataves. Jo et vaig esquivar; però les meves mans eren ertes i fredes. Anem-nos-en a dormir, ara.
About the headline (FAQ)
Authorship:
- Translation from English to Catalan (Català) copyright © 2016 by Salvador Pila, (re)printed on this website with kind permission. To reprint and distribute this author's work for concert programs, CD booklets, etc., you may ask the copyright-holder(s) directly or ask us; we are authorized to grant permission on their behalf. Please provide the translator's name when contacting us.
Contact: licenses@email.lieder.example.net
Based on:
- a text in English by Not Applicable [an adaptation]
Based on:
- a text in English by Wilfred Owen (1893 - 1918), "Strange meeting", appears in Wheels, 1919: Fourth Cycle, first published 1919
This text was added to the website: 2016-06-30
Line count: 33
Word count: 308