The Man with the Hoe Omul cu târnăcopul
�mi pare foarte r?u c? nu m? �ncumet s? traduc acest poem despre �omul cu sapa� care trude?te din greu pentru fiecare buc??ic? de p�ine...Poemul se �ncheie cu un avertisment care aminte?te de George Co?buc cu al s?u �Noi Vrem p?m�nt�
�C?nd nu vom mai putea r?bda
�C?nd nu vom mai putea r?bda
C�nd foamea ne va r?scula
Hristo?i s? fi?i, nu ve?i sc?pa
Nici �n morm�nt�
?i dac? tot sunt aici hai s? pun toat? poezia poetului pe care �l iubesc mai mult dec�t pe Eminescu:
Noi vrem p?m�nt!
Fl?m�nd ?i gol, f?r-ad?post,
Mi-ai pus pe umeri c�t ai vrut,
?i m-ai scuipat ?i m-ai b?tut
?i c�ine eu ?i-am fost!
Ciocoi pribeag, adus de v�nt,
De ai cu iadul leg?m�nt
S?-?i fim to?i c�ini, love?te-n noi!
R?bd?m poveri, r?bd?m nevoi
?i ham de cai, ?i jug de boi
Dar vrem p?m�nt!
O coaj? de m?lai de ieri
De-o vezi la noi tu ne-o apuci.
B?ie?ii tu-n r?zboi ni-i duci,
Pe fete ni le ceri.
�njuri ce-avem noi drag ?i sf�nt:
Nici mil? n-ai, nici crez?m�nt!
Fl?m�nzi copiii-n drum ne mor
?i ne sf�r?im de mila lor -
Dar toate le-am tr?i u?or
De-ar fi p?m�nt!
De-avem un cimitir �n sat
Ni-l face?i lan, noi, boi �n jug.
?i-n urma lacomului plug
Ies oase ?i-i p?cat!
Sunt oase dintr-al nostru os:
Dar ce v? pas?! Voi ne-a?i scos
Din case goi, �n ger ?i-n v�nt,
Ne-a?i scos ?i mor?ii din morm�nt; -
O, pentru mor?i ?i-al lor prinos
Noi vrem p?m�nt!
?i-am vrea ?i noi, ?i noi s? ?tim
C? ni-or sta oasele-ntr-un loc,
C? nu-?i vor bate-ai vo?tri joc
De noi, dac? murim.
Orfani ?i cei ce dragi ne sunt
De-ar vrea s? pl�ng? pe-un morm�nt,
Ei n-or ?ti-n care ?an? z?cem,
C?ci nici pentr-un morm�nt n-avem
P?m�nt - ?i noi cre?tini suntem!
?i vrem p?m�nt!
N-avem nici vreme de-nchinat.
C?ci vremea ni-e �n m�ni la voi;
Avem un suflet �nc?-n noi
?i parc? l-a?i uitat!
A?i pus cu to?ii jur?m�nt
S? n-avem drepturi ?i cuv�nt;
B?t?i ?i chinuri, c�nd ?ip?m,
Obezi ?i lan? c�nd ne mi?c?m,
?i plumb c�nd istovi?i strig?m
C? vrem p?m�nt!
Voi ce-ave?i �ngropat aici?
Voi gr�u? Dar noi str?mo?i ?i ta?i
Noi mame ?i surori ?i fra?i!
�n l?turi, venetici!
P?m�ntul nostru-i scump ?i sf�nt,
C? el ni-e leag?n ?i morm�nt;
Cu s�nge cald l-am ap?rat,
?i c�te ape l-au udat
Sunt numai lacrimi ce-am v?rsat -
Noi vrem p?m�nt!
N-avem puteri ?i chip de-acum
S? mai tr?im cer?ind mereu,
C? prea ne schingiuiesc cum vreu
St?p�ni lua?i din drum!
S? nu dea Dumnezeu cel sf�nt,
S? vrem noi s�nge, nu p?m�nt!
C�nd nu vom mai putea r?bda,
C�nd foamea ne va r?scula,
Hristo?i s? fi?i, nu ve?i sc?pa
Nici �n morm�nt!
�The Man with the Hoe is a poem by the American poet Edwin Markham, inspired by Jean-Fran�ois Millets painting Lhomme � la houe. The poem was first presented as a public poetry reading at a New Years Eve party in 1898, and published soon afterwards. It portrays the labor of much of humanity using the symbolism of a laborer leaning upon his hoe, burdened by his work, but receiving little rest or reward. It has been called "the battle-cry of the next thousand years"[1] and translated into 37 languages,[2] earning Markham about $250,000 over 33 years.[1]
The Man with the Hoe
Bowed by the weight of centuries he leans
Upon his hoe and gazes on the ground,
The emptiness of ages in his face,
And on his back the burden of the world.
Who made him dead to rapture and despair,
A thing that grieves not and that never hopes.
Stolid and stunned, a brother to the ox?
Who loosened and let down this brutal jaw?
Whose was the hand that slanted back this brow?
Whose breath blew out the light within this brain?
Is this the Thing the Lord God made and gave
To have dominion over sea and land;
To trace the stars and search the heavens for power;
To feel the passion of Eternity?
Is this the Dream He dreamed who shaped the suns
And marked their ways upon the ancient deep?
Down all the stretch of Hell to its last gulf
There is no shape more terrible than this �
More tongued with censure of the worlds blind greed �
More filled with signs and portents for the soul �
More fraught with menace to the universe.
What gulfs between him and the seraphim!
Slave of the wheel of labor, what to him
Are Plato and the swing of Pleiades?
What the long reaches of the peaks of song,
The rift of dawn, the reddening of the rose?
Through this dread shape the suffering ages look;
Times tragedy is in the aching stoop;
Through this dread shape humanity betrayed,
Plundered, profaned, and disinherited,
Cries protest to the Powers that made the world.
A protest that is also a prophecy.
O masters, lords and rulers in all lands,
Is this the handiwork you give to God,
This monstrous thing distorted and soul-quenched?
How will you ever straighten up this shape;
Touch it again with immortality;
Give back the upward looking and the light;
Rebuild in it the music and the dream,
Make right the immemorial infamies,
Perfidious wrongs, imendicable woes?
O masters, lords and rulers in all lands
How will the Future reckon with this Man?
How answer his brute question in that hour
When whirlwinds of rebellion shake all shores?
How will it be with kingdoms and with kings �
With those who shaped him to the thing he is �
When this dumb Terror shall rise to judge the world.
After the silence of the centuries? �
From Wikipedia
?i dac? tot sunt aici hai s? pun toat? poezia poetului pe care �l iubesc mai mult dec�t pe Eminescu:
Noi vrem p?m�nt!
Fl?m�nd ?i gol, f?r-ad?post,
Mi-ai pus pe umeri c�t ai vrut,
?i m-ai scuipat ?i m-ai b?tut
?i c�ine eu ?i-am fost!
Ciocoi pribeag, adus de v�nt,
De ai cu iadul leg?m�nt
S?-?i fim to?i c�ini, love?te-n noi!
R?bd?m poveri, r?bd?m nevoi
?i ham de cai, ?i jug de boi
Dar vrem p?m�nt!
O coaj? de m?lai de ieri
De-o vezi la noi tu ne-o apuci.
B?ie?ii tu-n r?zboi ni-i duci,
Pe fete ni le ceri.
�njuri ce-avem noi drag ?i sf�nt:
Nici mil? n-ai, nici crez?m�nt!
Fl?m�nzi copiii-n drum ne mor
?i ne sf�r?im de mila lor -
Dar toate le-am tr?i u?or
De-ar fi p?m�nt!
De-avem un cimitir �n sat
Ni-l face?i lan, noi, boi �n jug.
?i-n urma lacomului plug
Ies oase ?i-i p?cat!
Sunt oase dintr-al nostru os:
Dar ce v? pas?! Voi ne-a?i scos
Din case goi, �n ger ?i-n v�nt,
Ne-a?i scos ?i mor?ii din morm�nt; -
O, pentru mor?i ?i-al lor prinos
Noi vrem p?m�nt!
?i-am vrea ?i noi, ?i noi s? ?tim
C? ni-or sta oasele-ntr-un loc,
C? nu-?i vor bate-ai vo?tri joc
De noi, dac? murim.
Orfani ?i cei ce dragi ne sunt
De-ar vrea s? pl�ng? pe-un morm�nt,
Ei n-or ?ti-n care ?an? z?cem,
C?ci nici pentr-un morm�nt n-avem
P?m�nt - ?i noi cre?tini suntem!
?i vrem p?m�nt!
N-avem nici vreme de-nchinat.
C?ci vremea ni-e �n m�ni la voi;
Avem un suflet �nc?-n noi
?i parc? l-a?i uitat!
A?i pus cu to?ii jur?m�nt
S? n-avem drepturi ?i cuv�nt;
B?t?i ?i chinuri, c�nd ?ip?m,
Obezi ?i lan? c�nd ne mi?c?m,
?i plumb c�nd istovi?i strig?m
C? vrem p?m�nt!
Voi ce-ave?i �ngropat aici?
Voi gr�u? Dar noi str?mo?i ?i ta?i
Noi mame ?i surori ?i fra?i!
�n l?turi, venetici!
P?m�ntul nostru-i scump ?i sf�nt,
C? el ni-e leag?n ?i morm�nt;
Cu s�nge cald l-am ap?rat,
?i c�te ape l-au udat
Sunt numai lacrimi ce-am v?rsat -
Noi vrem p?m�nt!
N-avem puteri ?i chip de-acum
S? mai tr?im cer?ind mereu,
C? prea ne schingiuiesc cum vreu
St?p�ni lua?i din drum!
S? nu dea Dumnezeu cel sf�nt,
S? vrem noi s�nge, nu p?m�nt!
C�nd nu vom mai putea r?bda,
C�nd foamea ne va r?scula,
Hristo?i s? fi?i, nu ve?i sc?pa
Nici �n morm�nt!
�The Man with the Hoe is a poem by the American poet Edwin Markham, inspired by Jean-Fran�ois Millets painting Lhomme � la houe. The poem was first presented as a public poetry reading at a New Years Eve party in 1898, and published soon afterwards. It portrays the labor of much of humanity using the symbolism of a laborer leaning upon his hoe, burdened by his work, but receiving little rest or reward. It has been called "the battle-cry of the next thousand years"[1] and translated into 37 languages,[2] earning Markham about $250,000 over 33 years.[1]
The Man with the Hoe
Bowed by the weight of centuries he leans
Upon his hoe and gazes on the ground,
The emptiness of ages in his face,
And on his back the burden of the world.
Who made him dead to rapture and despair,
A thing that grieves not and that never hopes.
Stolid and stunned, a brother to the ox?
Who loosened and let down this brutal jaw?
Whose was the hand that slanted back this brow?
Whose breath blew out the light within this brain?
Is this the Thing the Lord God made and gave
To have dominion over sea and land;
To trace the stars and search the heavens for power;
To feel the passion of Eternity?
Is this the Dream He dreamed who shaped the suns
And marked their ways upon the ancient deep?
Down all the stretch of Hell to its last gulf
There is no shape more terrible than this �
More tongued with censure of the worlds blind greed �
More filled with signs and portents for the soul �
More fraught with menace to the universe.
What gulfs between him and the seraphim!
Slave of the wheel of labor, what to him
Are Plato and the swing of Pleiades?
What the long reaches of the peaks of song,
The rift of dawn, the reddening of the rose?
Through this dread shape the suffering ages look;
Times tragedy is in the aching stoop;
Through this dread shape humanity betrayed,
Plundered, profaned, and disinherited,
Cries protest to the Powers that made the world.
A protest that is also a prophecy.
O masters, lords and rulers in all lands,
Is this the handiwork you give to God,
This monstrous thing distorted and soul-quenched?
How will you ever straighten up this shape;
Touch it again with immortality;
Give back the upward looking and the light;
Rebuild in it the music and the dream,
Make right the immemorial infamies,
Perfidious wrongs, imendicable woes?
O masters, lords and rulers in all lands
How will the Future reckon with this Man?
How answer his brute question in that hour
When whirlwinds of rebellion shake all shores?
How will it be with kingdoms and with kings �
With those who shaped him to the thing he is �
When this dumb Terror shall rise to judge the world.
After the silence of the centuries? �
From Wikipedia
Jean-Fran�ois Millets painting Lhomme � la houe.
download file now