I Anda Malle
by Thomas Ferencz
Thomas Ferencz is from Hungary. His poem I Anda Malle was first posted on the Elfling mailing list in 2002.
Laucë auta Ambarello. Á pusta, telcu! Siarë lá yonta.
I asto hwinya or carinya, tuonyar rihtear pittavë,
tárë yúyo hautar. Anar ruxa, ar wile yernavë oronti pella.
Nwalca silmenen eleni ilwessë rilyar helcavë.
Ausa nimba véranyo yéni yá (randar quíta?)
tintila wilyassë imbë aldar. Pahtan hendunya.
Cenië oira i metto lelyalëo fárëa ná. Lingas
tellessë indonya auressë inyë. Á hauta,
indonya, á hauta! Láqua erin hequa selma.
Quetintë, Eldar i eleni laitar. Inyë rúcë
yétalentallo mettavalta, an selmanya talta
nu i ringa alavaxië enta. Quettar centanya
quetiën ni hehtaner írë i minëa néca nalta
aisto lantanë carinyanna. I centa aica
nyarië Valain sa cuilë ná túrina, ilyë
Eldar nar wanwa, Naucor firini caitar
nún nu ondor rómië límë lungë,
an Moringottor unótimë ortiër. Quíta
vanima ná sa lambanya ná nútina
an írë quetin i quettar i sundor Ambarwa
tancavë ruxar nyenyala, ar Cúma ilúvë tópa.
Ai! Ananta
I cirya larta enta hópassë vahaiya, ya
ullume hiruvan. Var sië nin séya.
Translation
The Long Road
Warmth has passed from the world. Stop, my legs! No more today.
The dust swirls above my head, my sinews shake a bit,
both rest then. The Sun crumbles, and floats tired beyond the mountains.
Stars icily glitter in the sky with their cruel light.
A sad vision of my self long years ago (or was it ages?)
trembles in the air among the trees. I shut my eyes.
It is enough to see the end of the journey all the time. It dangles
in the rear of my mind every day. Rest,
my mind, rest! Nothing remains but resolve.
They say, the Elves praise the stars. I myself dread
their endless glare, for my will collapses
under that cold perfection. The words, my message
to utter have abandoned me when the first faint glitter
of fear fell on my head. The dire message,
to tell the Valar that life is defeated, all
the Elves are gone, the Dwarves lie dead
deep under rocks too heavy to heave,
and countless Morgoths have arisen. Perhaps
it is proper that my tongue is knotted
for when I say the words, the roots of the world
will surely crumble crying, and the Void covers all.
But alas! still
the ship waits there in that harbour far away, that
I will never find. Or so it seems.
yétalë 'glare' from yéta- 'look'.
alavaxie
'perfection' lit. 'stainlessness' from vaxë 'stain'.