Eugène N. Marais - The Jack of Spades

Eugène N. Marais

The Jack of Spades

Eugène N. Marais

I

A drop of gall is in the sweetest wine

a tear in every tuneful twine

in every laugh a sigh of pain

in every rose a petal plain.

The one who through the dark

spies on our jolly lark

and whose laughter's last to fade,

is the Jack of Spades.

II

Sure and certain is the word:

The treasures that we gather up,

despite the strongest lock and cord

are saved for moth and rust alone.

We’re only tenants all

of dust and down

all hapless aides

to the Jack of Spades.

III

The joys of flesh and blood;

of curls that catch the sun

and cast a golden glow;

of dawn on every tender cheek

and eyes with starry splendour

are meek against his greater might.

Already wrinkles are engraved;

over all the maggots watch

only dust and ashes will endure:

for black and grim,

the highest card

over moveables and real estates

remains the Jack of Spades.

IV  L'Envoi

Surely this is all a joke!

We play along in this burlesque fun                        

hoodwinked with a mourning band

that even casts a shadow on the sun.

Why bother to lament?

Flute and violin still play a faint refrain,

And long the night that lies ahead.

And though perfect grace we’ll never attain,

yet shines the eye and glows the skin

and make the whole of winter a blossoming.

Thus undeluded

we but laugh along

on the last charades

of the Jack of Spades.

[Translated by Johann de Lange]

Eugène N. Marais - The Dance of the Rain

Eugène Nielen Marais

The Dance of the Rain

Eugène N. Marais

Song of the fiddler, Jan Konterdans, of the Great Desert

Oh, the dance of our Sister!

First, over the hilltop she slyly peeps,

            and her eyes are shy;

            and she laughs softly.

From afar she beckons with one hand

her armlets shimmer and her beads sparkle;

            she calls softly.

She tells the winds about the dance

and she invites them, since the yard is wide and the wedding large.

The big game rush up from the plains,

            they gather on the hilltop,

their nostrils flare wide

            and they gulp the wind;

and they crouch, to see her delicate tracks in the sand.

The tiny ones, deep underground, hear the shuffle of her feet,

            and they crawl closer softly singing:

            “Our Sister! Our Sister! You came! You came!”

And her beads shake,

and her copper bangles shine in the vanishing sun.

            On her forehead rests the vulture’s fiery plume;

                she steps down from the heights;

she spreads the dusty kaross with both arms;

                the wind’s breath is taken away.

            Oh, the dance of our Sister!

(Translated by Johann de Lange)