Eu si Andy ne-am gandit ca poate v-ar placea sa recititi poezia Corbul a lui Edgar Allan Poe, atat in original cat si tradusa in romaneste. Pentru varianta originala, va trebui sa folositi Jaws-ul in limba engleza.
The Raven (Edgar Allan Poe)
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more,'
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more!'
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.'
But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never-nevermore."'
But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!
CORBUL (Edgar Allan Poe)
Intr-un sumbru miez de noapte cind, sleit si slab, in soapte,
Cercetam doctrine stranii strinse-n jerpelit cotor,
Si picam de somn, – de-odata, auzii o foarte-nceata
Lovitura repetata-n usa mea izbind usor.
„E vreun calator”, soptit-am, „care ciocane usor, –
Doar atit – un calator.”
Ah, mi-aduc aminte – ceata, si-un decembrie de gheata;
Lent agonizind taciunii-si lasau spectrul pe covor.
Zorii-i asteptam sa vie, si-n zadar ceream tarie
Din carti vechi, la jalea vie dupa stinsa mea Lenore, –
Fata-flacara pe care ingerii-o numesc Lenore, –
Nu aici – in lumea lor.
Fosnetul matasei grele-n purpuriile perdele
Ma-njunghia, – varsa in pieptu-mi un ciudat, adinc fior;
Ca sa-mi potolesc nebuna inima ziceam intr-una
„Vreun drumet ce-asteapta luna bate-n usa-ncetisor,
Ratacit drumet ce bate-n usa mea incetisor.
Doar atit – un calator”.
Repede-adunind putere-n suflet, fara-ntirziere,
„Domnule”, am zis, „ori doamna, mila voastra o implor;
Fapt e ca dormeam; – putina, doar bataia-a fost de vina,
O bataie mult prea lina-n usa mea, incit usor
Am luat-o drept parere”, – si-am deschis usa usor; –
Bezna – nici un calator.
Sfredelind a noptii smoala, plin de spasme si-ndoiala,
Stam visind ce-n vis vreodata n-a visat vreun muritor;
Dar tacerea si pamintul erau grele ca mormintul;
Se-auzi numai cuvintul murmurat abia – „Lenore?” –
Eu l-am spus, – apoi ecoul repeta cernit „Lenore!”
Doar atit – o vorba-n zbor.
Intorcindu-ma-n odaie, mistuit ca de-o vapaie,
Deslusii acelasi sunet, de-asta data mai cu spor.
„Sigur”, zis-am, sigur trece cineva; – sub geamul rece,
Ia, sa vad ce se petrece; – am sa lamuresc usor
Taina-aceasta; – sa-mi trag firea si-o voi lamuri usor;
E doar vintul calator;
Iute-am dat oblonu-n laturi si, cu negrele-i peneturi,
Un vechi Corb din sfinte vremuri aparu solemn, in zbor;
Fara pic de ezitare, fara nici o inclinare,
Ca un domn sau doamna care nu cunosc ragaz, nici zor,
S-aseza pe bustul mindrei Pallas fara nici un zor,
Chiar de-asupra, sfidator.
Si, cum pasarea ursuza imi stirnea suris pe buza
Prin severa-i eticheta, grava, – am soptit usor
„Desi creasta ti-e golasa, nu pari o fiinta lasa, –
Corb spectral purtind camasa de-ntuneric, fosnitor, –
Spune-ti numele de domn pe tarmul Noptii fosnitor!”
Zise Corbul „Nevermore”.
Mult m-am minunat de-aceasta pasare cu tunsa creasta,
Ca vorbea, – desi raspunsul nu era lamuritor;
Insa nimanui in viata nu i se arata-n fata
Pasare tronind semeata chiar de-asupra pe usor, –
Pasare sau aratare stind pe-un bust, linga usor,
Cu-acest nume „Nevermore.”
Insa Corbul care-acuma sta pe bust rostise numai
Un cuvint in care-ntregu-i suflet se stingea de dor.
N-am mai zis nimic, – o vreme n-a miscat nici el din pene, –
Pina ce-am soptit alene „Alti amici s-au dus in zbor;
Miine si el o sa plece, ca Speranta mea, in zbor.”
Dar el zise „Nevermore.”
Tresarind ca vocea-i sparta-mi raspundea cu-atita arta,
„Da”, mi-am zis, „e tot ce stie, tot bagajul vorbitor
Smuls unui stapin prea-jalnic, caruia Dezastrul falnic
I-a schimbat un cint sagalnic in refren croncanitor, –
Tinguirile Sperantei in refren croncanitor,
Precum „Never-Nevermore.”
Si, cum pasarea ursuza imi stirnea suris pe buza,
Am impins grabit fotolui chiar sub bust, linga usor,
Si, surpat in el, cu gindul visul de alt vis legindu-l,
Ma-ntrebam mereu, scrutindu-1, ce mesaj prevestitor, –
Slab, din sfinte vremuri, sumbru – ce mesaj prevestitor
Mi-aducea prin „Nevermore.”
Asta framintam in minte, iscodind fara cuvinte
Corbul ce-atintea asupra-mi ochiul fix, sfredelitor.
Asta, si mai multe, – toate vrind sa stiu – lasam pe spate
Capu-n pernele muscate de-un reflex Stralucitor, –
Perne de matasa-n care parul ei stralucitor
Nu va mai pluti usor.
Camera-mi parea tesuta de-o tamiie nevazuta
Arsa de-un Seraf cu pasii ca un clinchet pe covor.
„Vai, sarmane!”, am zis, „Prin cete de heruvi, Cel sfint iti dete
Un ragaz – si suc – sa-mbete gindul tau pentru Lenore;
Bea acest suav nepenthes, bea, – si uit-o pe Lenore!”
Zise Corbul „Nevermore!”
„Piaza rea!” strigai, „Prooroace! – Corb sau diavol, n-are-a face!
Fie ca Ispititorul, fie ca furtuna-n zbor
Cuteza sa te trimita in pustia mea vrajita, –
Intr-o casa bintuita de Oroare, – te implor!
E vreun balsam in Iudeea? – spune, spune-mi, – te implor!”
Zise Corbul „Nevermore”.
„Piaza rea!” , strigai, „Prooroace! – Corb sau diavol, n-are-a face!
Pe boltitul cer, pe Domnul adorat de noi in cor, –
Spune-mi – saruta-voi oare in Edenul sfint din zare
Fata-flacara pe care ingerii-o numesc Lenore, –
Fata pura, ca o raza, care s-a numit Lenore?”
Zise Corbul „Nevermore!”
„Ultimul cuvint sa-ti fie!, – corb sau drac! in vijelie
Sa te-ntorci, – te-nchida Noaptea sub plutonicu-i zavor!
Pene nu lasa pe cale – martore minciunii tale!
Nu-mi sfarma cu-aripi spectrale sihastria! – Piei in zbor!
Scoate-ti crudul plisc din mine, forma spulbera-ti-o-n zbor!”
Zise Corbul „Nevermore”!
De-atunci Corbul, ca o stana, nu mai flutura din pana,
Stind pe bustul mindrei Pallas, – fantomatic, sfidator.
Ochii lui au para treaza-a unui demon ce viseaza,
Baza lampii-i proiecteaza umbra neagra pe covor,
Si-al meu suflet niciodata, smuls din ea, de pe covor,
Nu va mai sui in zbor.
The Raven (Corbul)
Moderator: Manu