Jarding di Hierosa / Gardens by the Gay
Poesia na Kristang, with an English translation
Pra 512 anu, yo ja sperah
pra ngua floris pra botah
na kabesa, pra balah;
tudu mundu, yo ja kartah
pra bos, kung keng bos ja pintah
pra 512 anu. Ngua jenti ta saltah
ung peu kung otru, pra lantah
ngua bersu ki tudu podih kantah.
Kantah bersu, desah ki tudu podih.
Lantah peu, kereh kaza undi fuzih.
Saltah pra 512 anu, impodih trimih;
Pintah bong, bos kung bos sa mang mistih
kartah tudu mundu, seng bergonya, seng drumih.
Balah seng parah; semesta inda teng lumi
botah ngua floris, pra 512 anu kudisih
ki ngua bara kebradu inda pun podih
fikah ngua jarding seng siumi.
Dos maris, ta lebah liang kung tigri.
Tres mundu sa deusa naseh di tona, juntu kung seksi
Kwartu brasu pra ganyah kung gapeh ireidi.
Singku strela 辛苦, pegah pra berdadi
ki mistih menus seis jenti na korsang sa GRC-GRC.
Seti dia sempri ta labutah seng lagri;
8 tempra sa cheru, ja incheh tudu saiki.
Ja sunyah angkru na Duenti sa Chang;
agora, kung agu kung sol,
boi choklat ja jadih
jardineru di tudu nadi kontah.
For 512 years, I have waited
for a flower to be weighted
on the head, for dancing;
all of the world, I have carried
for you, and all you have painted
for 512 years. A person jumping
from one foot to the other, as they began
a song that all could say they sang.
To sing in verse, one must want all to do the same.
To lift up your feet needs a house that one can claim.
To jump through 512 years, there cannot be trembling;
for to paint well, you and your hands must deign,
to map-carry the whole world, without sleep, without shame.
To dance without end, for the universe still has light enough emerging
for a flower to be placed, in spite of 512 years of knowing
that a harbour broken can still be
a garden without envy.
Two waves, leonine and tigrine.
Goddess of three worlds, born again and sexy,
with four arms to hold self-regard in safety.
Five exhausted stars, asked to speak honestly
that it must always be less than six in your heart's GRCs.
All seven days' work without misery
The fragrance of 8 functions wafting through psyche.
You planted anchor in the Sickness's Land.
Now, with water and light,
a brown boy has become
gardener of the uncountable.