אין שאַפּ, אָדער די סװעט־שאַפּMoris Roznfeld [Morris Rosenfeld] / מאָריס ראָזנפֿעלד
|La traduzione inglese (frammentaria) dal blog The Arty Semite. English...|
|IN THE SWEAT-SHOP (IN THE FACTORY)|
Oh, here in the shop the machines roar so wildly,
That oft, unaware that I am, or have been,
I sink and am lost in the terrible tumult;
And void is my soul... I am but a machine.
I work and I work and I work, never ceasing;
Create and create things from morning till e'en;
For what?--and for whom--Oh, I know not! Oh, ask not!
Who ever has heard of a conscious machine?
No, here is no feeling, no thought and no reason;
This life-crushing labor has ever supprest
The noblest and finest, the truest and richest,
The deepest, the highest and humanly best.
The seconds, the minutes, they pass out forever,
They vanish, swift fleeting like straws in a gale.
I drive the wheel madly as tho' to o'ertake them,--
Give chase without wisdom, or wit, or avail.
The clock in the workshop,--it rests not a moment;
It points on, and ticks on: Eternity--Time;
And once someone told me the clock had a meaning,--
Its pointing and ticking had reason and rhyme.
And this too he told me,--or had I been dreaming,--
The clock wakened life in one, forces unseen,
And something besides;... I forget what; Oh, ask not!
I know not, I know not, I am a machine.
At times, when I listen, I hear the clock plainly;--
The reason of old--the old meaning--is gone!
The maddening pendulum urges me forward
To labor and labor and still labor on.
The tick of the clock is the Boss in his anger!
The face of the clock has the eyes of a foe;
The clock--Oh, I shudder--dost hear how it drives me?
It calls me "Machine!" and it cries to me "Sew!"
At noon, when about me the wild tumult ceases,
And gone is the master, and I sit apart,
And dawn in my brain is beginning to glimmer,
The wound comes agape at the core of my heart;
And tears, bitter tears flow; ay, tears that are scalding;
They moisten my dinner--my dry crust of bread;
They choke me,--I cannot eat;--no, no, I cannot!
Oh, horrible toil I born of Need and of Dread.
The sweatshop at mid-day--I'll draw you the picture:
A battlefield bloody; the conflict at rest;
Around and about me the corpses are lying;
The blood cries aloud from the earth's gory breast.
A moment... and hark! The loud signal is sounded,
The dead rise again and renewed is the fight...
They struggle, these corpses; for strangers, for strangers!
They struggle, they fall, and they sink into night.
I gaze on the battle in bitterest anger,
And pain, hellish pain wakes the rebel in me!
The clock--now I hear it aright!--It is crying:
"An end to this bondage! An end there must be!"
It quickens my reason, each feeling within me;
It shows me how precious the moments that fly.
Oh, worthless my life if I longer am silent,
And lost to the world if in silence I die.
The man in me sleeping begins to awaken;
The thing that was slave into slumber has passed:
Now; up with the man in me! Up and be doing!
No misery more! Here is freedom at last!
When sudden: a whistle!--the Boss--an alarum!--
I sink in the slime of the stagnant routine;--
There's tumult, they struggle, oh, lost is my ego;--
I know not, I care not, I am a machine!...
|THE SWEATSHOP (FRAGMENT)|
The machines are so wildly noisy in the shop
That I often forget who I am.
I get lost in the frightful tumult —
My self is destroyed, I become a machine.
I work and work and work endlessly —
I create and create and create
Why? For whom? I don’t know and I don’t ask.
What business has a machine thinking?
I have no feelings, no thoughts, no understanding.
The bitter, bloody work suppresses
The noblest, most beautiful, best, richest,
Deepest, and highest things that life possesses.
Seconds, minutes, and hours go by — the days and nights sail past quickly.
I run the machine as if I wanted to overtake them —
I race mindlessly, endlessly.
The clock in the shop never rests —
It shows everything, strikes constantly, wakes us constantly.
Someone once explained it to me:
“In its showing and waking lies understanding.”
But I seem to remember something, as if from a dream:
The clock awakens life and understanding in me,
And something else — I forget what. Don’t ask!
I don’t know, I don’t know! I’m a machine!
At times, when I hear the clock,
I understand its showing and its language quite differently;
It seems to me that the pendulum urges me:
“Work, work, work a lot!”
I hear in its tones only the boss’s anger, his dark look.
The clock, it seems to me, drives me,
Gnashes its teeth, calls me “machine,” and yells at me: “Go!”
But when the wild tumult dies down
And the boss goes away for his lunch hour,
Dawn begins to break in my mind
And things tug at my heart.
Then I feel my wound,
And bitter, burning tears
Soak my meager lunch, my bread.
I feel choked up and I can’t eat any more — I can’t!
Oh, frightful toil! Oh, bitter poverty!
The human being that is sleeping within me
begins to awake —
the slave that is awake in me
seems to fall asleep.
Now the right hour has struck!
An end to loneliness — let there be an end to it!
But suddenly the whistle, the “boss,” sounds an alarm!
I lose my mind, I forget who I am.
There’s tumult and struggling — my self is lost.
I don’t know, I don’t care — I am a machine!