by Wilhelm Albert Włodzimierz Apolinary Kostrowicki (1880 - 1918), as Guillaume Apollinaire
Translation © by Peter Low

Sanglots
Language: French (Français) 
Available translation(s): ENG
      Notre amour est réglé par les calmes étoiles
      Or nous savons qu'en nous beaucoup d'hommes respirent
      Qui vinrent de trés loin et sont un sous nos fronts
 C'est la chanson des rêveurs
 Qui s'étaient arraché le coeur
 Et le portaient dans la main droite ...
      Souviens-t'en cher orgueil de tous ces souvenirs
      Des marins qui chantaient comme des conquérants.
      Des gouffres de Thulé, des tendres cieux d'Ophir
      Des malades maudits, de ceux qui fuient leur ombre
      Et du retour joyeux des heureux émigrants.
 De ce coeur il coulait du sang
 Et le rêveur allait pensant
 À sa blessure délicate ... 
      Tu ne briseras pas la chaîne de ces causes...
 ...Et douloureuse et nous disait:
       ...Qui sont les effets d'autres causes
 Mon pauvre coeur, mon coeur brisé
 Pareil au coeur de tous les hommes...
       Voici nos mains que la vie fit esclaves
 ...Est mort d'amour ou c'est tout comme
 Est mort d'amour et le voici.
       Ainsi vont toutes choses
 Arrachez donc le vôtre aussi!
       Et rien ne sera libre jusq'à la fin des temps
       Laissons tout aux morts
       Et cachons nos sanglots

Authorship

Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive)

Available translations, adaptations, and transliterations (if applicable):

  • ENG English (Peter Low) , title 1: "Sobs", copyright © 2001, (re)printed on this website with kind permission


Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]

This text was added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Line count: 27
Word count: 182

Sobs
Language: English  after the French (Français) 
     Human love is ruled by the calm stars.
      We know that within us many people breathe
      who came from afar and are united behind our brows.
 This is the song of that dreamer
 who had torn out his heart
 and was carrying it in his right hand...
      Remember, oh dear pride, all those memories:
      the sailors who sang like conquerors,
      the chasms of Thule, the tender skies of Ophir,
      the accursed sick, the ones who flee their own shadows,
      and the joyful return of the happy emigrants.
 Blood was flowing from that heart;
 and the dreamer went on thinking
 of his wound which was delicate ...
      You will not break the chain of those causes...
 ...and painful; and he kept saying to us:
       ...which are the effects of other causes.
 "My poor heart, my heart which is broken
 like the hearts of all men...
      Look, here are our hands which life enslaved.
 "...has died of love or so it seems,
 has died of love and here it is.
      That is the way of all things.
 "So tear your hearts out too!"
      And nothing will be free until the end of time.
      Let us leave everything to the dead,
      and let us hide our sobbing.

Authorship

  • Translation from French (Français) to English copyright © 2001 by Peter Low, (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.
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Based on

 

This text was added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Line count: 27
Word count: 205