Lara.
Lara.
by Lord Byron.
IV.
He comes at last in sudden loneliness,
And whence they know not, why they need not guess;
They more might marvel, when the greeting's o'er,
Not that he came, but came not long before:
No train is his beyond a single page,
Of foreign aspect, and of tender age.
Years had roll'd on, and fast they speed away
To those that wander as to those that stay;
But lack of tidings from another clime
Had lent a flagging wing to weary Time.
They see, they recognise, yet almost deem
The present dubious, or the past a dream.
He lives, nor yet is past his manhood's prime,
Though sear'd by toil, and something touch'd by time;
His faults, whate'er they were, if scarce forgot,
Might be untaught him by his varied lot;
Nor good nor ill of late were known, his name
Might yet uphold his patrimonial fame.
His soul in youth was haughty, but his sins
No more than pleasure from the stripling wins;
And such, if not yet harden'd in their course,
Might be redeem'd, nor ask a long remorse.
*
η μουσικη ειναι Astor Piazzolla.
Libertango και Balada para un loco.
*
Για σενα οπως παντα.
*
2 σχόλια:
Επειδή one good turn deserves another, και επειδή το tango είναι ο χορός του πάθους, δεν υπάρχει καταλληλότερο σχόλιο από τους τελευταίους στίχους του Lara, που μιλούν για την αντίδραση της Gulnare/Kaled μετά το θάνατο του Conrad/Lara:
Grief had so tamed a spirit once too proud,
her tears were few, her wailing never loud;
But furious would you tear her from the spot
where yet she scarce believed that he was not,
her eye shot forth with all the living fire
that haunts the tigress in her whelpless ire;
but left to waste her weary moments there,
she talk'd all idly unto shapes of air,
such as the busy brain of Sorrow paints,
and woos to listen to her fond complaints:
and she would sit beneath the very tree
where lay his drooping head upon her knee:
and in that posture where she saw him fall,
his words, his looks, his dying grasp recall;
and she had shorn, but saved her raven hair,
and oft would snatch it from her bosom there,
and fold, and press it gently to the ground,
as if she staunch'd anew some phantom's wound.
Herself would question, and for him reply;
then rising, start, and beckon him to fly
from some imagined spectre in pursuit;
then seat her down upon some linden's root
and hide her visage with her meagre hand,
or trace strange characters along the sand.
This could not last - she lies by him she loved;
her tale untold, her truth too dearly proved.
Ενταξει... τι να πω τωρα.
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