Klaus Groth (1819–1899)
English version by Reinhard F. Hahn
Reading · Lesung:
Reinhard F. Hahn
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Wat stæhntder Abends rutut Moor?
Dat is de Wind in Reth un Rohr.
Och ne, dat is keen Reth un Wind,
Dar stæhnt en Fru,
dar weent en Kind!
What’s
moaning on the moor at night?
It’s rustling reeds, the wind in flight.
Oh, no, it’s no reeds, no wind that sighs
But a woman’s moans, an infant’s cries!
Dat
wimmert Abends krank un swach,
Dat snuckertlud de
ganze Nacht,
Dat flücht sik vær de
Morgensünn
As Newel in
de deepstenGrünn’.
There’s
whimpering around twilight
And noisy sobs throughout the night.
It flees at sunrise like a veil
Of mist descending in a dale.
Doch
wenn de Scheper Middags slöppt,
So hört he, wa dat lisenröppt,
So deep,
so dump, so swack un leeg, Asgung der nerrn en Krankenweeg.
But
when the shepherd naps by day
He hears soft cries not far away
So deeply, weakly through the still
As if from someone deadly ill.
Dat
is en Seel, de hett keen Rau,
De flücht sik as de Morgendau,
Dat is en Seel, de hett keen Fred,
De singt un singt en Wegenleed.
A
restless soul soon out of sight,
It fades like dew come morning light,
A soul that finds no peace, that sighs
And sings and sings its lullabies.
Un
is dat Moor alleen un kahl,
Un jagt de BlædvuntHolthendal,
Denn flüggt se
mit in Strom un Larm,
En blekeDiern, er Kind
in Arm.
When
life deserts the bare, bleak fen
And woods shed all their leaves again
She, too, leaves with the autumn wild—
A pale lass, in her arms her child.
Op
Dubenheid dar is en Moor,
Dar stat de Wicheln kahl
un sor.
In Dubenheid dar is en Lunk,
Doch schriggt der
nu ni Pock noch Unk.
At
Dove Heath there is swampy ground
With bare, dead willows all around.
At Dove Heath there’s a slough, a bog,
Yet you hear neither toad nor frog.
Dat witte Wullgras steit der
rund,
Dar is en Dæpelsünner Grund,
Dat Water sipert grön
un trag’
Un kumt bi Braken eerst to
Dag’.
White
cotton grass grows all around
A bottomless pond in dipping ground
Where water seeps up, oozing and green,
That just in bareness can be seen.
Dat
is de Kul, dar smitt se’t rin,
Dat is de Platz, dar mutt se
hin,
Dar steit un ritt se
sik de Haar
Un is verswunn’ bettokum Jahr.
That’s
where she repeats tossing her child,
The place that beckons her back through the wild,
Where she’ll stand, tear her hair, then disappear,
Not to return before next year.
De
Wachtel röppt, de Harst de kumt,
De Kukuk is al lang verstummt –
Nu hör! wastæhn dat lud un swar!
Bald ward dat
still bettokum Jahr.
When
autumn comes you hear quails calling.
Cuckoo’s long gone when leaves are falling.
Listen! Those loud moans! Can’t you hear?
Soon they will stop until next year.
