Ballade Von Den Baumwollpflückern
B. Traven| Traduzione inglese (traduttore sconosciuto) | |
| BALLADE DES CUEILLEURS DE COTON | SONG OF THE COTTON-PICKERS |
| Le citoyen porte mon cadeau, Le millionnaire, le président. Mais moi, minable cueilleur, Dans ma poche, pas d'argent. Trot, trotte, sur le champ ! Le soleil se lève maintenant Serre solidement | Cotton is worn by king and prince, Millionaire and president, But the lowly cotton-picker Sweats to earn each bloody cent. Get going to the cotton field, The sun is moving up and up. Sling on your sack, Tighten your belt - Listen, the scales are turning. |
| Autour du sac, la sangle ! Entends-tu crisser la balance ? | Look at the food I get to eat - Beans and chile, tortilla-bread - And the scarecrow shirt I swiped, Torn by bush and patched with shreds. Get going to the cotton field, The sun is moving on and on. Sling on your sack, Tighten your belt - Listen, are the scales begging? |
| Mon seul repas, des haricots noirs, Dedans au lieu de viande, du poivre noir, Ma chemise a mangé le buisson, Puisque je suis un cueilleur de coton. | Cotton sells at soaring prices, But I ain't got a decent shoe. My pants hang down in ragged threads, Here and there my butt shows through. Get going to the cotton field, The sun climbs high too soon. Sling on your sack, Tighten your belt - Listen, are the scales bossing? |
| J'ai un vieux chapeau De paille, mais aucun brin n'est bon, Et je dois le garder, ce chapeau Car je ne peux pas cueillir, sinon. Trot, trotte, sur le champ ! Le soleil se lève maintenant Serre solidement Autour du sac, la sangle ! Entends-tu crisser la balance ? | On my head a straw sombrero, Kicked in when I got beat. But I couldn't pick without it Bending in the burning heat. Get going to the cotton field, The sun is aiming high. Sling on your sack, Tighten your belt - Hey, are the scales trembling? |
| Je suis couvert de poux, un vagabond, Ça doit être ainsi et c'est bien, Car si je n'étais pas un pauvre chien, Il n'y aurait pas de coton. Trot, trotte, dehors sur le champ ! Le soleil descend. La balance se balance en grinçant ! | I'm just a lousy vagabond, See, that's the way they made me be, And there's no cotton crop for you Unless it's picked by bums like me. March! - in cotton-picking ranks Beneath the firing sun! Or fill your sacks with rocks - Hear, are the scales breaking? |
