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La jovènta di peus ros
e dis uelhs de coire vèrd 
l’an getada dins la clastra 

una nuech lisca d’ivèrn. 
Dins lo vuege dau convènt 
ela ausis un cant de vènt
e crida: sus li crestencs 
sabe que l’aurassa confla 
una luna de cuer saure
Pèr matar la votz de l’aura 
i an tapadas lis aurelhas.
Pèr qu’oblide son pantais 
i an corduradas li cilhas.
L’an butada au fons d’un mèmbre
ont gingola lo remèmbre 
dins lo freg de la preguiera. 
Mai son pitre s’es dubèrt 
e’spelida entre si sens
la flor cauda de son còr 
tèn espoussat son encèns
tant de flaire e tant d’encèns
que l’aiganha a perlejat 
sus li bards e qu’an gisclat
mila greus au fons de l’ombra
amb lo lum de son sang vèrd.

Boca seca e mans au cèu 
i son li gardas vengudas.
E la jovènta èra nusa
cor sagnant entre li possas. 
E li parets èran sebissas 
d’ont rajava pèr cortina 
sus sa tèsta quatre sèrps. 
Sus li sèrps la luna saura 
se conflava dins lo vènt.

Robert Lafont
Five poems from Dire

Translated from Occitan by William Calin



 William Calin   103

Legend of the Girl with Red Hair

The girl with red hair 
and eyes of green copper
they threw her into a cloister 

one smooth winter’s night.
In the emptiness of the convent 
she hears a song of wind
and cries: I know that
over the crests the hurricane swells 
a moon with sorrel hide.
To tame the voice of the wind 
they plugged her ears.
To make her forget the dream 
they sewed her eyelashes.
They thrust her to the far end of the hall
where memory moans
in the coldness of prayer.
But her bust opened
and blooming between her breasts 
the hot flower of her heart
grasps its powdery incense
so much fragrance and incense 
that dew pearled
on the flagstones and burst forth
a thousand tendrils to the depths of darkness 
with the light of her green blood.

With mouth dry and hands raised to the sky 
the guards came.
And the girl was naked
her heart bleeding between her breasts.
And the walls were hedges 
from which four snakes flowed 
as if a curtain onto her head.
Above the snakes the sorrel moon
swelled in the wind.



104    Robert Lafont

Segonda legenda de la meteissa drolla

La jovènta di peus doç 
se clinèt a son bescaume 
e moriá l’alen dau jorn
sus li plècs de son reiaume.
Dins la poussa dis ensenhas 
nèbla palla còrfalida
que radava sus la plana
quauqu’un sòna la manida 
e se’n cor la filha sola
dins la nuech seca d’angoissa.
Fèra nuech camin ferrat 
d’un terraire endemoniat 
que lo cèu ambé si carris
i engrunava de dieus mòrts. 
Castèus d’ombra castèus d’aur 
massapans de vièlhi pecas
sus l’estrada sènsa luna
tot trestomba e tot s’endeca 
l’aucelilha revoluma.
Mai s’aplanta la jovènta 
sus la tepa d’un vièlh fluvi 
ont marmusan de deluvis 
que se nèga dins l’escur
lo dieu jove mau-segur 
que sonava au clarebrun. 
E la dròlla di peus doç 
tornarà puèi au bescaume 
pèr mirar l’alen dau jorn
sus li plècs de son reiaume.



 William Calin   105

Second Legend of the Same Girl

The girl with soft hair 
leaned over her balcony 
and the breath of day died 
on the folds of the kingdom.
In the powder of the constellations 
pale swooning mist
that drifts over the plain
someone summoned the girl 
and she fled alone
in the parched night of anguish.
Fierce night paved road 
on a bewitched land
where the sky with his chariots 
crushed dead gods.
Castles of shade castles of gold 
caskets of old sins
on the moonless road
all tumbles down and all is corrupted 
the little birds swirl.
But the girl stops
on the grass of an old river 
where deluges murmur
when the insecure young god 
who called out in the twilight 
drowns in darkness.
And the girl with soft hair 
will return to the balcony 
to behold the breath of day
on the folds of the kingdom.



106    Robert Lafont

Cantata de la miseria dins Arle
    A Teò Rigaud

Ròse Ròse roiga-terra 
plueja plueja manja-cèu 
nèbla nèbla banha-còr 
misèria freja coma fanga 
Aura d’aut mossega-serra
gèu gelat dagueja-nèu 
cèu d’estam galeja-mòrt 
misèria dura coma pèira.

Arle quichada coma un crit.

Bomba aguda creba-terra 
flors d’encèndi enaura-cèu 
vonve d’aut bacèla-còr 
dolor duberta sus l’Autura.
Garba d’uelhs dançar di serras 
gau-galin petar di lèus
eli negre nuech di mòrts
dolor sèns fe dolor sèns gaubi. 

Arle crebada coma un uòu.

Sabèm nosautres coma es tèndre 
lo còs de l’òme dins la guerra.

Dròlle dròlle plora-astrada 
òme preda de sofréncia 
femna femna quicha-còr 
solesa barri sèns torrilhas. 
Vira vira la jornada 
mentre soina la paciéncia 
ombra lutz e mar sèns pòrt 
agriòta de desiranças.

Arle malauta coma un mond.

Sabèm nosautres coma es lònga 
nòstra carriera dins la fam.

Tu que cantas diga caraco 
ton esperança d’agoléncia.



 William Calin   107

Cantata of the Misery in Arles
   For Teò Rigaud

Rhone Rhone earth-gnawer 
rain rain sky-devourer 
mist mist  heart-bather  
misery cold like mud
south wind crest-eroder
frozen frost snow-stabber 
pewter sky death-joker 
misery hard like rock

Arles squeezed like a cry.

High-pitched bomb earth-smasher 
flowers of fire sky-glorifier 
buzzing from above heart-striker 
pain opened on the Auture.
Bouquet of eyes dancing of crests 
poppy bursting of lungs
black lily night of the dead
faithless pain formless pain. 

Arles broken like an egg.

We know well how tender is 
a man’s body in war.

Child child fate-weeper 
man prey of suffering
woman woman heart-bruiser
loneliness rampart with no turrets.
Turn turn the day
while patience whimpers
darkness light and sea with no port 
wild cherry of desires.

Arles ill like a world.

We know well how long is 
our path in hunger.

You who sing tell gypsy 
your hope of wild rose.



108    Robert Lafont

Lo caraco

Ou! Quau ne vòu de nòstri vetges 
trenam lo solèu amb l’odor
de l’aiga e nòstre còr es rege
avèm pas la fòrça d’un plor.
Quau nos balharà de dardenas 
pèr comprar doas onças de pena?

Ou! quau vòu una banastada 
de luna lisca a Montmajor
e d’ombra. Desnusam li fadas
sabèm pas lis us de l’amor.
Quau nos balharà de dardenas 
pèr comprar doas onças de pena?

Voliàtz l’amor d’una caraco . . .
Anessiatz donc levar un rai 
au solèu de la posaraca.
Una caraco ama jamai.
Quau nos balharà de dardenas 
pèr comprar doas onças de pena?

Fasèm balar ors e monina
e siátz curiós de nòstris uelhs
avèm lo biais d’una robina 
ont se miralha vòstra nuech.
Quau nos balharà de dardenas
pèr comprar doas onças de pena? 

E vòstra saviesa caraco?

Vènga la jòia o la maganha 
nosautres quora caminam
avèm de pès d’esteriganhas 
toi li matins son un deman.
Quau nos balharà de dardenas 
pèr comprar doas onças de pena?

De qu’es deman amic caraco?

Quau nos vèn parlar de vielhonge?
Viram coma una eternitat
muts e descauç pariers de monges 
au vèntre un vòt de pauretat.



 William Calin   109

The Gypsy

Oh! Would you like our wicker baskets 
we weave the sun with the fragrance
of water and our heart is hardened
we don’t have the force of a tear.
Who will give us the money 
to buy two pennies of sorrow?

Oh! Who would like a basket full 
of smooth moon at Montmajour
and of darkness. We undress the fays 
we know not the ways of love.
Who will give us the money 
to buy two pennies of sorrow?

You wish for the love of a gypsy woman?
Then go snatch a ray 
from the sun in the water wheel.
A gypsy woman never loves.
Who will give us the money 
to buy two pennies of sorrow?

We make the bear and monkey dance 
and you are curious about our eyes 
we have them like a canal
where your night is mirrored. 
Who will give us the money 
to buy two pennies of sorrow?

And your wisdom gypsy?

Come joy or misery 
when we are on the road 
we have spiders’ legs
all mornings are tomorrow. 
Who will give us the money 
to buy two pennies of sorrow?

What is tomorrow friend gypsy?

Who would speak to us of old age?
We go round like an eternity 
mute and discalced like monks 
in the belly a vow of poverty.



110    Robert Lafont

Ou! quau ne vòu de nòstri vetges
nos quitaretz la languison
de nòstri còrs dorguetas vuejas 
amb la misèria seca au fons.
Quau nos balharà de dardenas 
pèr comprar doas onças de pena?

Caraco que caraco es una estranha istòria 
Nòia
ton pòble negre de trimards 
fan de sòmis d’aiga
que s’enfusan entre li dets.
Nòia
ton pòble nus e mai bragard 
amb de bortolaiga
còson la luna au topinet.
Caraco que caraco eli vènon en òdi 
mouson l’esfrai di galiniers
tòrçon lo còu i miugraniers.

E vòstri caracos òmes blancs?

Vincèns Van Gogh vengut en Arle 
vèn s’embarrar a Sant-Romieg.
I a una pena sus lo mond 
vira e crema coma un solèu.
I a una pena dintre l’èime 
e lo cèu es una vouta
tant dessús coma dessota.
Vincèns Van Gogh t’aviàm bandit 
dau terraire de nòstris uelhs
mai pintas la còma dau roge 
e lo mond vira a ton entorn. 
Fegondas la carn de la nuech 
amb lo verd de l’innocéncia
e la man mòrta de l’espèr 
clava la cleda de l’angoissa.

Solèu uelh sènsa parpèlas 
torres torres de dolor 
cèndre cèndre vènt-terrau 
misèria d’òmes sènsa raras 
Ròse Ròse mòrt di velas 
cèu d’encèndi crema-jorn



 William Calin   111

Oh! Who would like our wicker baskets 
You leave us the nostalgia
of our hearts empty jugs
with arid misery at the bottom. 
Who will give us the money to 
buy two pennies of sorrow?

Gypsy or not it’s a strange tale 
Little girl
your black people of migrants 
dream dreams of water
that slip through one’s fingers.
Little girl
your naked and braggart people 
with purslane
cook the moon in a little earthenware jug.
Gypsy or not they come to be hated
they draw forth the fear of poultry-mongers 
they wring the neck of pomegranate trees.

And your white gypsies?

Vincent Van Gogh having come to Arles 
shuts himself away at Saint-Rémy.
There is a sorrow over the world 
turns and burns like a sun.
There is a sorrow in the soul 
and the sky is a vault
overhead as well as underneath.
Vincent Van Gogh we chased you away 
from the homeland of our eyes
yet you paint hair red
and the world revolves around you. 
You sowed the flesh of the night
with the green of innocence
and hope’s dead hand
locks up the paddock of anguish.

Sun eye with no lids 
towers towers of pain 
ashes ashes north wind
misery of men with no borders 
Rhone Rhone death of sails 
sky of fire day-burner 



112    Robert Lafont

Camarga flaca plana Crau
sèrp de dobtança sèrp de l’ombra. 

Arle carbon dau clarebrun.

De qué parlatz de la misèria? 
Au clarebrun la vila es freja 
e d’Arabs i viran sèns fe.
—Sabèm nosautres coma aissejan 
en estrifant l’onda e la vida
li batèus que vènon d’Argier 
bressats di votz de la paciéncia. 
Arquipèus negres barrutlaires 
coneissèm pas la poësia
que pèr nos engardar dau langui 
li pesolhs nos tènon companha 
di còstas mòros fins Marselha.

Mòro Mòro ta cançon
es estranha dins lo terraire.
—Arlatenc nòstra misèria 
es estranha en tot païs.

Lo mòro vielh

Lo ris es bas e vèn dins l’aiga 
solèu corona de mi lombs
lo ris es bas e vèn dins l’aiga 
ai l’idèa qu’es coma un plomb.

Li mistèris dau capitau 
aiga ponhaus de freg subtila 
li mistèris dau capitau
fan d’aur ambé la bauca umila.

Lo Capitau es una Mèca 
que sols i van li tres pèr cènt 
lo Capitau es una Mèca 
lassiera luna dins la mènt.
 
Luna redona sus lo ris
veses dins ieu coma dins l’aiga 
luna redona sus lo ris
siám pèr noirir una erba vaiga.



 William Calin   113

Camargue limp plain Crau 
snake of doubt snake of the shadow.

Arles charcoal of the twilight.

What do you say about misery?
At twilight the city is cold
and Arabs wander about with no faith.
— We know well how
the boats that come from Algiers 
rocked by voices of patience
moan ripping apart the waves and life.
Black archipelagos adrift 
we know not the poetry
that could protect us from languor
lice keep us company
from the moorish coasts to Marseille.

Moor Moor your song 
is foreign to our land.
—Man of Arles our misery
is foreign to all lands.

The Old Moor

The rice low down grows in water 
sun crown of my back
the rice low down grows in water 
my thought is like lead.

The mysteries of capital 
subtle water dagger of cold 
the mysteries of capital
turn the humble weed into gold.

Capital is a Mecca
only the three percent go there 
Capital is a Mecca
Weariness moon in the mind. 

Round moon over the rice field 
you see into me as into water 
round moon over the rice field 
we nourish a sluggish weed.



114    Robert Lafont

E morirem devèrs la Mèca 
virats pregant lo Capitau 
e morirem devèrs la Mèca 
virats misèria solèu rauc.

Ai! li camins de Cabilia
miran dançar l’ombra dis euses...

Ai! Mòro vièlh una legènda...

Legènda que legènda avèm fam de la vida 
sus la levada en letania
menam d’ombras que son pas d’òmes
a caminar sus lo tremont.

Ome òme preda d’òmes
la vergonha es dins lo vènt 
e lo verme dins lo fruch 
misèria vida empalunada 
ràbia flors celèstre còma 
d’espèrs glòria de l’Oriènt 
confla nuech deman alut
misèria prens coma una taura. 

Capitala di nuechs fegondas.

Li caminòus de Cabilia 
lis andanas di Segonaus 
sabon lo mistèri de l’aiga
sabon lo greu e sabon l’òme. 
Mòro deman es causa doça 
coma candèla dins la nuech. 
Detràs la fam e li mitralhas 
l’èime es tan grand pèr abraçar 
lo pensament e la foliá.
L’èime es tan grand coma lo cièri 
redon parier que la rason
e l’uelh. E l’èime es de nosautres.
Darrier la fam e li mitralhas 
son li terraires de la Patz
la Patz de sòmi e d’archimbèla 
pèr pesar tot lo ris dau mond. 
Ome òme òme òme...

Arle levada Arle torres.



 William Calin   115

And we will die facing Mecca 
turned praying to Capital 
and we will die facing Mecca 
turned misery raucous sun.

Oh! The roads of Kabilia
behold the shade of holm oaks dancing...

Oh! old Moor a legend...

Legend or not we hunger for life 
on the levee in litany
we direct shades that are not men
to head for the setting sun.

Man man prey of men 
shame is in the wind 
and worm in the fruit
misery life made a swamp 
madness flowers open-air hair 
glory of the East of our hopes 
swollen night winged tomorrow 
misery in calf as if a heifer.

Capital of fertile nights.

The little paths of Kabilia 
the paths of Ségonnaux 
know the mystery of water
know the seed and know the man.
Moor tomorrow is sweet 
like a candle in the night.
Beyond hunger and pennies
the spirit is so great as to embrace 
worry and madness.
The spirit is as great as the Arena 
round like reason
and the eye. And the spirit is ours.
Beyond hunger and pennies 
are the lands of Peace
the Peace of our dreams and of a scale 
to weigh all the rice in the world.
Man man man man...

Arles raised high Arles towers.


