quinta-feira, 16 de julho de 2015

Martin Litchfield West

23 de setembro de 1937 - 13 de julho de 2015

Elegy on an Indo-European hero

Urukleves now I call to mind,
the son of valiant Seghekleves,
who with his great thirsty spear
slew men and horses by hundreds.

Many a day he arose with the sun
and led the war-host to the field of blood:
there they fought like raging fire,
army against army, man against man.

He stood firm amid the missiles
like the oak of Perkunos under hail.
He broke ancient strongholds
and brought away wealth of cattle.

Hsugnos he slew, the son of Hsvekvos,
Vlqvo, Vlqvognos, and mighty Xnrmenes.
The black crows were glad of his work,
but a black cloud he set for the kinsfolk.

Well-joined was the dear name
you set on your son, Seghekleves:
wide in truth his glory spreads
under that heaven, over this earth.

He has gone the way of no return
to you and the Fathers in the mansion below,
but his name does not fail or grow old:
it lives in the mouths of us earth-walkers.

It will sound until Dieus’ fair daughter
embraces her dark sister in one house,
or until the poets’ woven songs
are sung no more in the kings’ halls.

from M. L. West, Indo-European Poetry and Myth, p. 504

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