Ezra Pound - Canto XII
“Era odata un matroz sarac si cinstit, un machitor,
Scandalagiu si bataus, un betiv, si
Bautura l-a bagat in spital,
Si l-au operat, si mai era acolo o curvã amãrîtã în
Salonul femeilor si tocmai nascuse, cînd
Il reparau pe marinar, si i-au adus lui plodul
Cînd si-a revenit, si i-au zis:
”Uite ce-am scos din tine.“
El s-a uitat la arãtare si s-a fãcut mai bine,
Si cind a iesit din spital s-a lasat de baut
Si s-a inzdravenit de tot
si-a plecat cu alt vapor
Si a strans toti banii de platã,
si de atunci a pus deoparte tot ce cistiga,
Si a cumparat actiuni intr-un vas,
iar dupa aia a urcat la juma din actiuni,
A luat tot vasul
si si-a facut o intreagã flotilã.
L-a dat pe ţînc la scoalã,
si cînd era la liceu,
Moşului i s-a facut iar rãu
si doctorii au zis ca e pe moarte,
Iar baiatul a venit la patul lui,
si batrînul matroz i-a zis:
”Baiete, regret ca trebuie s-o tai,
”Cind esti asa tînãr.
Iti las multe re-sponsa-bilitãţi.
”Tare voiam sa te vãd crescînd,
”Mai priceput în biznes…“
”Lasã… lasã-mã pe mine, eu-s bine,
Problema-i cu tine, tatã.“
”Vezi, bãiete, ai zis-o.
”Tu crezi ca io-s tac‘tu, da‘ nu-s.
”Nu-s tac‘tu, dragule, nu.
”Io-s mã‘ta, nu tac‘tu“, grãi el,
”Tac‘tu era un neguţãtor înstãrit din Stambul.“
There once was a pore honest sailor, a heavy drinker,
A hell of a cuss, a rowster, a boozer, and
The drink finally sent him to hospital,
And they operated, and there was a poor whore in
The woman’s ward had a kid, while
They were fixing the sailor, and they brought him the kid
When he came to, and said :
‘Here! this is what we took out of you.’
An’ he looked at it, an’ he got better,
And when he left the hospital, quit the drink,
And when he was well enough signed on with another ship
And saved up his pay money, and kept on savin’ his pay money,
And bought a share in the ship, and finally had half shares,
Then a ship and in time a whole line of steamers;
And educated the kid, and when the kid was in college,
The ole sailor was again taken bad and the doctors said he was dying,
And the boy came to the bedside, and the old sailor said:
‘Boy, I’m sorry I can’t hang on a bit longer,
‘You’re young yet.
I leave you re-sponsa-bilities.
‘Wish I could ha’ waited till you were older,
‘More fit to take over the bisness…’
‘Don’t, don’t talk about me, I’m all right,
‘It’s you, father.’
‘That’s it, boy, you said it.
‘You called me your father, and I ain’t.
‘I ain’t your dad, no,
‘I am not your fader but your moder,’ quod he,
‘Your fader was a rich merchant in Stambouli.’