Jeff Diteman

Newetat Uwas


Newetat Uwas
Tar ye oin senghwiros aperoi kenktet
kapom saptet nausai
strengobhi dipro yeugt
Op gherete, op gherete
enebhrend nedobhi gherete
Kneko, kneko pewor
en medhei apas
Atme senghwiroi gheightet
memsom ostad plekum kwemen
ye mo aitim dewas esti
Kneko, kneko pewor
en medhei apas
Enebhrend-se bhreusend
bhreusens kruwei bhreistum
senktens bhreusens westum
ye mo aitim dewas esti
Esrgwom-suo wenobhi
altrens esrgwos awetum
Kneko, kneko pewor
en medhei apas
Ita swempte.
Apa som kwemte.
Enebhrend nedho gheidatas.
Bildete apas nkartat!
Newe kwosukwe apai senghweti
Bdelend leptem tambom bhleighti
Iyatad-wuo soldeyi
dewas dewotam senghwetum
Kneko, kneko pewor
en medhei apas.
     The Invention of Sad Song
     Once there was a singer
     walking along a riverbank, very hungry,
     when he spotted something in the water:
     lashed to a burning raft,
     a sacrificial goat.
     And he longed for it, he longed for it!
     With a watery web of longing!
     Honey-colored fire
     in the middle of the river.
     The singerís soul yearned
     to tear flesh from bone, to swallow it up
     But this is the goddessís portion!
     Honey-colored fire
     in the middle of the river.
     To soak his soul in bruising,
     a pile of bruises render,
     to feast on burnt bruises.
     (But this is the goddessís portion!)
     To dilute his blood in the wine of anotherís blood!
     Honey-colored fire in the middle of the river!
     So he swam for it.
     The river swallowed him.
     Desireís watery web!
     Imagine the riverís indifference!
     Now, he sings in every river
     and beats his drum of gurgling stone,
     his punishment, to sing forever
     the praises of the goddess.
     Honey-colored fire
     in the middle of the river.


Wetis mei bhardai
leitebhis lendhebhis-de mem hegati.
Bhlomabhis-kom agrens,
bhrentabhis-kom bhereghens,
bharda solwom gereti.
Ameikans gereti,
ghostens gereti,
aludem kwod bharesem meo awos gorteta gereti.
Leitei ne bhredo.
Ita kwid? Kwori skeleyo?
Wetis mei stlokoi bhredeti.


     The wind in my beard
     speaks to me of distant lands.
     Fields full of flowers,
     mountains full of deer,
     my beard gathers all.
     It gathers friends,
     gathers strangers,
     gathers beer whose barley my grandfather gathered.
     I donít travel far.
     So? Why should I?
     The wind travels for me.