Och snon foll vit i vinterskog
|
dar raven stod pa lur
|
for tystnaden i blanad vildmarkstrakt.
|
Har drojde du vid kojans eld
|
och dromde om en var
|
och skrev din sang och holl vid milan vakt.
|
|
Nu porlar den i varens tid
|
din fors i milsvid skog!
|
Nu surrar den av bin din sommarang!
|
Jag anar spar av karva steg
|
som trotta spelman tog
|
och rosors blod
|
i ton fran sorgens strang.
|
An sjunger vinden vida,
|
nar hosten brinner rod,
|
din sang om livets villkor,
|
om kamp for hem och brod.
|
Nu porlar den i varens tid
|
din fors i milsvid skog!
|
Nu surrar den av bin
|
din sommarang!
|
Jag anar spar av karva steg
|
som trotta spelman tog
|
och rosors blod
|
i ton fran sorgens strang.
|
|
Du vandrare, du speleman,
|
du kung i tiggardrakt,
|
du brann i natten fylld av kold och is.
|
Den eld som brann den varmer an,
|
din saga och din dikt
|
om evig sol och sommarparadis.
|
|
Nu porlar den i varens tid
|
din fors i milsvid skog!
|
Nu surrar den av bin din sommarang!
|
Jag anar spar av karva steg
|
som trotta spelman tog
|
och rosors blod
|
i ton fran sorgens strang.
|
An sjunger vinden vida,
|
nar hosten brinner rod,
|
din sang om livets villkor,
|
om kamp for hem och brod.
|
Nu porlar den i varens tid
|
din fors i milsvid skog!
|
Nu surrar den av bin
|
din sommarang!
|
Jag anar spar av karva steg
|
som trotta spelman tog
|
och rosors blod
|
i ton fran sorgens strang.
|
|
[Authorized English version of the song]
|
|
The snow fell white in Winter´s woods
|
where foxes stood on guard,
|
in silence in the timber-cutters gash
|
In patient watch you also stood,
|
as charcoal slowly charred,
|
composing verse while embers turned to ash.
|
|
Loud ripples from the river-bed.
|
The forest stretches wide.
|
The busy bees are buzzing now it´s Spring.
|
I sense the sound of heavy tread
|
as tired fiddlers stride,
|
and roses bleed in tune with sorrow´s strings.
|
The wild winds sing their sombre tones
|
when Autumn turns to red.
|
The song of tribulation,
|
the fight for daily bread.
|
Loud ripples from the river-bed.
|
The forest stretches wide,
|
The busy bees are buzzing now it´s Spring.
|
I sense the sound of heavy tread
|
as tired fiddlers stride,
|
and roses bleed in tune with sorrow´s strings.
|
|
A wanderer, a minstrel man,
|
a king, though clad in rags.
|
A charcoal burner, midst the snow and ice.
|
The flame you lit still spreads your heat
|
in stories and in verse
|
on sunlight in a Summer paradise.
|
|
Loud ripples from the river-bed.
|
The forest stretches wide.
|
The busy bees are buzzing now it´s Spring.
|
I sense the sound of heavy tread
|
as tired fiddlers stride,
|
and roses bleed in tune with sorrow´s strings.
|
The wild winds sing their sombre tones
|
when Autumn turns to red.
|
The song of tribulation,
|
the fight for daily bread.
|
Loud ripples from the river-bed.
|
The forest stretches wide,
|
The busy bees are buzzing now it´s Spring.
|
I sense the sound of heavy tread
|
as tired fiddlers stride,
|
and roses bleed in tune with sorrow´s strings.
|
|
-----------------
|
Till En Vildmarkspoet
|
| Alexander Rybak |
