|
Although I be the basest of mankind,
From scalp to sole one slough and crust of sin,
Unfit for earth, unfit for heaven, scarce meet
For troops of devils, mad with blasphemy,
I will not cease to grasp the hope I hold
Of saintdom, and to clamour, mourn and sob,
Battering the gates of heaven with storms of prayer,
Have mercy, Lord, and take away my sin.
|
Παρ᾿ ὅλο ποὺ εἶμαι ὁ εὐτελέστερος τῶν ἀνθρώπων,
Ἀπὸ κεφαλῆς μέχρις ὀνύχων ἕνα κάκαδο ἁμαρτίας,
Ἀκατάλληλος γιὰ γῆ καὶ οὐρανό, ἀπρόσφορος
Γιὰ διαβόλων στίφη, παραλογισμένος ἀπ’ τὴ βλασφημία,
Δὲν θὰ πάψω νὰ κρατάω σφιχτὰ τὴν ἐλπίδα
Τῆς ἁγιοσύνης καὶ νὰ οὐρλιάζω, νὰ θρηνῶ, νὰ κλαίω,
Βροντῶντας τὶς πύλες τ’ οὐρανοῦ μὲ καταιγισμοὺς προσευχῶν,
Ἔλεος, Κύριε, ἐξάλειψον τὸ ἀνόμημά μου!
|
|
Let this avail, just, dreadful, mighty God,
This not be all in vain, that thrice ten years,
Thrice multiplied by superhuman pangs,
In hungers and in thirsts, fevers and cold,
In coughs, aches, stitches, ulcerous throes and cramps,
A sign betwixt the meadow and the cloud,
Patient on this tall pillar I have borne
Rain, wind, frost, heat, hail, damp, and sleet, and snow;
And I had hoped that ere this period closed
Thou wouldst have caught me up into thy rest,
Denying not these weather-beaten limbs
The meed of saints, the white robe and the palm.
|
Ἂς εἶναι τοῦτο πρὸς ὄφελός μου, δίκαιε, τρομερέ, παντοδύναμε Θεέ,
Ἂς μὴν πάει χαμένο, πὼς τρεῖς δεκάδες χρόνια,
Τρεῖς φορὲς πολλαπλασιασμένα ἀπὸ ὑπεράνθρωπες ἀγωνίες,
Μὲ πεῖνα καὶ δίψα, μὲ πυρετὸ καὶ κρύο,
Μὲ βῆχα, μὲ πόνους, μὲ σουβλιές, πληγὲς καὶ σπασμούς,
Σημεῖο μεταξὺ λειμῶνος καὶ νέφους,
Μὲ καρτερία πάνω σὲ αὐτὴ τὴν ψηλὴ στήλη ἔχω ἀντέξει
Βροχή, ἄνεμο, πάγο, ζέστη, χαλάζι, ὑγρασία καὶ χιονόβροχο καὶ χιόνι∙
Καὶ ἤλπιζα πὼς ἐδῶ αὐτὴ ἡ περίοδος θὰ ἔκλεινε,
Θὰ μ’ ἔπαιρνες νὰ ἀναπαυτῶ κοντά σου,
Δὲν θ’ ἀρνιόσουν σ’ αὐτὸ τὸ ἀνεμοδαρμένο σῶμα
Τὸ ἔπαθλο τοῦ ἁγίου, τὸν λευκὸ χιτῶνα καὶ τὴ δάφνη.
|
|
O take the meaning, Lord: I do not breathe,
Not whisper, any murmur of complaint.
Pain heaped ten-hundred-fold to this, were still
Less burthen, by ten-hundred-fold, to bear,
Than were those lead-like tons of sin that crushed
My spirit flat before thee.
|
Ὤ, κατάλαβέ το αὐτό, Κύριε! Δὲν ψιθυρίζω,
Δὲν μουρμουρίζω κανένα γογγυσμὸ ἢ παράπονο.
Χίλιες φορὲς πιὸ ὀδυνηρὸ κι ἂν ἦταν τοῦτο,
Καὶ πάλι θά ’τανε λιγότερο φορτίο, χίλιες φορὲς μικρότερο
Γιὰ νὰ τὸ ἀντέξω, ἀπὸ ἐκείνους τοὺς μολυβένιους τόνους τῆς ἁμαρτίας
Ποὺ συνέτριβαν τὸ πνεῦμα μου μπροστά σου.
|
|
O Lord, Lord,
Thou knowest I bore this better at the first,
For I was strong and hale of body then;
And though my teeth, which now are dropped away,
Would chatter with the cold, and all my beard
Was tagged with icy fringes in the moon,
I drowned the whoopings of the owl with sound
Of pious hymns and psalms, and sometimes saw
An angel stand and watch me, as I sang.
Now am I feeble grown; my end draws nigh;
I hope my end draws nigh: half deaf I am,
So that I scarce can hear the people hum
About the column's base, and almost blind,
And scarce can recognize the fields I know;
And both my thighs are rotted with the dew;
Yet cease I not to clamour and to cry,
While my stiff spine can hold my weary head,
Till all my limbs drop piecemeal from the stone,
Have mercy, mercy: take away my sin.
|
Ὦ Κύριε, Κύριε,
Ξέρεις πὼς τὸ ἄντεξα καλύτερα στὴν ἀρχή,
Γιατὶ ἤμουν δυνατὸς κι ἀκμαῖος στὸ σῶμα τότε∙
Καὶ παρ᾿ ὅλο ποὺ τὰ δόντια μου, ποὺ τώρα ἔχουν πέσει,
Χτυποῦσαν μὲ τὸ κρύο, κι ἡ γενειάδα μου
Κρουστάλλιαζε στὸ φεγγαρόφωτο,
Ἔπνιγα τῆς κραυγὲς τῆς κουκουβάγιας μὲ ἤχους
Εὐσεβῶν ὕμνων καὶ ψαλμῶν, καὶ κάποτε ἔβλεπα
Ἕναν ἄγγελο νὰ στέκεται καὶ νὰ μὲ παρατηρεῖ, καθὼς ἔψαλα.
Τώρα ἔγινα σιγὰ-σιγὰ ἀδύναμος∙ τὸ τέλος μου εἶναι κοντά∙
Ἐλπίζω τὸ τέλος μου νὰ εἶναι κοντὰ∙ μισόκουφος εἶμαι
Τόσο ποὺ μόλις ἀκούω τὸ βουητὸ τῶν ἀνθρώπων
Στὴ βάση τῆς στήλης, καὶ σχεδὸν τυφλὸς
Τόσο ποὺ μόλις ἀναγνωρίζω τοὺς ἀγροὺς ποὺ γνωρίζω∙
Τὰ δυό μου πόδια ἔχουν σαπίσει ἀπὸ τὴν ὑγρασία∙
Κι ὡστόσο, δὲν παύω νὰ κλαίω καὶ νὰ οὐρλιάζω,
Ὅσο ἀκόμη ἡ κουρασμένη μου ράχη μπορεῖ νὰ βαστήξει τὸ κουρασμένο μου
Κεφάλι, ὥσπου ὅλα τὰ μέλη μου νὰ πέσουν ἕνα-ἕνα ἀπὸ τὴ στήλη,
Ἔλεος, ἔλεος, ἐξάλειψον τὸ ἀνόμημά μου!
|
|
O Jesus, if thou wilt not save my soul,
Who may be saved? who is it may be saved?
Who may be made a saint, if I fail here?
Show me the man hath suffered more than I.
For did not all thy martyrs die one death?
For either they were stoned, or crucified,
Or burned in fire, or boiled in oil, or sawn
In twain beneath the ribs; but I die here
Today, and whole years long, a life of death.
Bear witness, if I could have found a way
(And heedfully I sifted all my thought)
More slowly-painful to subdue this home
Of sin, my flesh, which I despise and hate,
I had not stinted practice, O my God.
|
Ὦ Ἰησοῦ, ἂν δὲν σώσεις τὴ δική μου ψυχὴ
Τότε ποιός θὰ σωθεῖ; Ποιός μπορεῖ νὰ σωθεῖ;
Ποιός μπορεῖ νὰ γίνει ἅγιος, ἂν ἐγὼ ἀποτύχω;
Δεῖξε μου τὸν ἄνθρωπο ποὺ ὑπέφερε περισσότερο ἀπὸ μένα.
Ὅλοι οἱ μάρτυρες ἕνα θάνατο δὲν πέθαναν;
Εἴτε τοὺς λιθοβόλησαν εἴτε τοὺς σταύρωσαν
Εἴτε τοὺς ἔκαψαν ἢ τοὺς ἔβρασαν σὲ λάδι
Εἴτε τοὺς πριόνισαν τὰ πλευρά∙ ἀλλὰ ἐγὼ πεθαίνω ἐδῶ
Σήμερα, καὶ χρόνια ὁλόκληρα πεθαίνω, μιὰ ζωὴ θανάτου.
Ἂν μποροῦσα νὰ βρῶ ἕναν τρόπο
(Κι ἔστιψα τὸ μυαλό μου γιὰ βρῶ)
Βραδύτερο καὶ ὀδυνηρότερο γιὰ νὰ δαμάσω αὐτὸν τὸν οἶκο
Τῆς ἁμαρτίας, τὴ σάρκα μου, ποὺ περιφρονῶ καὶ μισῶ,
Δὲν θὰ δίσταζα νὰ τὸν ἐφαρμόσω, Θεέ μου!
|
|
For not alone this pillar-punishment,
Not this alone I bore: but while I lived
In the white convent down the valley there,
For many weeks about my loins I wore
The rope that haled the buckets from the well,
Twisted as tight as I could knot the noose;
And spake not of it to a single soul,
Until the ulcer, eating through my skin,
Betrayed my secret penance, so that all
My brethren marvelled greatly. More than this
I bore, whereof, O God, thou knowest all.
|
Γιατὶ ὄχι μόνο αὐτὴ τὴν τιμωρία πάνω στὴ στήλη,
Ὄχι μόνο τοῦτο ὑπέφερα∙ ἀλλὰ κι ὅταν ζοῦσα
Στὸ λευκὸ μοναστήρι κεῖ κάτω στὴν κοιλάδα,
Γιὰ πολλὲς ἑβδομάδες φοροῦσα γύρω ἀπὸ τὴ μέση μου
Τὸ σχοινὶ ποὺ τραβοῦν τὸν κουβᾶ ἀπὸ τὸ πηγάδι,
Δεμένο τόσο σφιχτὰ ὅσο μποροῦσα νὰ σφίξω τὴ θηλιά,
Καὶ δὲ μιλοῦσα σὲ κανέναν,
Ὣς ὅτου ἡ πληγή, μεγαλώνοντας καὶ τρώγοντας τὴ σάρκα μου,
Πρόδινε τὸ κρυφό μου ἐπιτίμιο, κι ὅλοι
Οἱ ἀδελφοί μου ἀποροῦσαν καὶ θαύμαζαν. Κι ἄλλα ἀκόμη
Ὑπέφερα, Θεέ, καὶ τὰ γνωρίζεις.
|
|
Three winters, that my soul might grow to thee,
I lived up there on yonder mountain-side.
My right leg chained into the crag, I lay
Pent in a roofless close of ragged stones;
Inswathed sometimes in wandering mist, and twice
Blacked with thy branding thunder, and sometimes
Sucking the damps for drink, and eating not,
Except the spare chance-gift of those that came
To touch my body and be healed, and live:
|
Τρεῖς χειμῶνες, γιὰ νὰ ἀνέβει ἡ ψυχή μου σ’ ἐσένα,
Ἔζησα ἐκεῖ ψηλὰ στὴ βουνοπλαγιά,
Μὲ τὸ δεξί μου πόδι ἁλυσοδεμένο στὸ βράχο, ἔμεινα
Κλεισμένος σ’ ἕνα μαντρὶ ἀπὸ πέτρες χωρὶς στέγη∙
Τυλιγμένος ἄλλοτε ἀπ’ τὸ πούσι καὶ δυὸ φορὲς
Καψαλισμένος ἀπ’ τὴ φωτιὰ τοῦ κεραυνοῦ σου, καὶ μερικὲς φορὲς
Ῥουφῶντας τὴν ὑγρασία γιὰ νὰ πιῶ, χωρὶς φαΐ,
Πάρεξ τὸ πενιχρὸ ποῦ καὶ ποῦ δῶρο ὅσων ἔρχονταν
Γιὰ νὰ ἀγγίξουν τὸ σῶμα μου, νὰ γιατρευτοῦν καὶ νὰ ζήσουν.
|
|
And they say then that I worked miracles,
Whereof my fame is loud amongst mankind,
Cured lameness, palsies, cancers. Thou, O God,
Knowest alone whether this was or no.
Have mercy, mercy; cover all my sin.
|
Κι αὐτοὶ λένε πὼς ἔκανα θαύματα,
Κι ἡ φήμη μου ἁπλώθηκε μεταξὺ τῶν ἀνθρώπων,
Πὼς θεράπευα τοὺς χωλούς, τοὺς παράλυτους, τὸν καρκίνο.
Σὺ μόνο, Θεέ, γνωρίζεις ἂν εἶναι ἀλήθεια ἢ ὄχι.
Ἔλεος, ἔλεος, ἐξάλειψον τὸ ἀνόμημά μου!
|
|
Then, that I might be more alone with thee,
Three years I lived upon a pillar, high
Six cubits, and three years on one of twelve;
And twice three years I crouched on one that rose
Twenty by measure; last of all, I grew
Twice ten long weary weary years to this,
That numbers forty cubits from the soil.
|
Καὶ μετά, γιὰ νά ’μιὰ πιὸ μόνος μαζί σου,
Τρία χρόνια ἔζησα πάνω σὲ μιὰ στήλη ψηλὴ
Ἕξι πήχεις, καὶ τρία χρόνια σ’ ἄλλη μιὰ ποὺ ἔφτανε τοὺς δώδεκα∙
Καὶ τρία σὺν τρία χρόνια κούρνιασα σὲ μιὰ
Ποὺ ὑψωνόταν εἴκοσι πήχεις∙ καὶ τέλος ἔφτασα,
Μετὰ ἀπὸ δυὸ μακρὲς κι ἐπίπονες δεκαετίες, σὲ τούτη
Ποὺ ἀριθμεῖ σαράντα πήχεις ἀπὸ τὸ ἔδαφος.
|
|
I think that I have borne as much as this -
Or else I dream -and for so long a time,
If I may measure time by yon slow light,
And this high dial, which my sorrow crowns -
So much -even so.
|
Νομίζω πὼς τὰ ὑπέφερα ὅλα αὐτά –
Ἐκτὸς κι ἂν ὀνειρεύομαι – τόσο πολὺ καιρό,
Ἂν δύναμαι τὸν χρόνο νὰ ὑπολογίσω μὲ κεῖνο τὸ ἀργὸ φῶς
Καὶ τοῦτο τὸ ἡλιακὸ ρολόι ποὺ στεφανώνει τὴ θλίψη μου –
Τόσα πολλά – ἀκόμη κι ἔτσι.
|
|
And yet I know not well,
For that the evil ones come here, and say,
"Fall down, O Simeon: thou hast suffered long
For ages and for ages!" then they prate
Of penances I cannot have gone through,
Perplexing me with lies; and oft I fall,
Maybe for months, in such blind lethargies
That Heaven, and Earth, and Time are choked.
|
Κι ὡστόσο δὲν εἶμαι βέβαιος,
Γιατὶ ἔρχονται οἱ κακοὶ ἐδῶ καὶ λένε
«Κατέβα, Συμεών∙ ἀρκετὰ ὅσα ὑπέφερες
Χρόνια καὶ χρόνια!» Κι ἀρχίζουν νὰ φλυαροῦν
Νὰ μιλᾶνε γιὰ ἐπιτίμια ποὺ δὲν μπορεῖ νὰ τὰ ἐξετέλεσα,
Καὶ μὲ μπερδεύουν μὲ ψέματα∙ καὶ συχνὰ βυθίζομαι,
Γιὰ μῆνες ἴσως, σ’ ἕνα τυφλὸ λήθαργο, τόσο ποὺ
Ἡ Γῆ κι ὁ Οὐρανὸς κι ὁ Χρόνος σβήνουν.
|
|
But yet
Bethink thee, Lord, while thou and all the saints
Enjoy themselves in heaven, and men on earth
House in the shade of comfortable roofs,
Sit with their wives by fires, eat wholesome food,
And wear warm clothes, and even beasts have stalls,
I, 'tween the spring and downfall of the light,
Bow down one thousand and two hundred times,
To Christ, the Virgin Mother, and the Saints;
Or in the night, after a little sleep,
I wake: the chill stars sparkle; I am wet
With drenching dews, or stiff with crackling frost.
I wear an undressed goatskin on my back;
A grazing iron collar grinds my neck;
And in my weak lean arms I lift the cross,
And strive and wrestle with thee till I die:
O mercy, mercy! wash away my sin.
|
Ὡστόσο,
Ἀναλογίσου, Κύριε, πὼς ὅταν ἐσὺ μὲ τοὺς ἁγίους
Περνᾶτε ὡραία στὰ Οὐράνια, κι οἱ ἄνθρωποι στὴ γῆ
Βρίσκουν καταφύγιο καὶ ἄνεση κάτω ἀπὸ μιὰ στέγη,
Μὲ τὶς γυναῖκες τους δίπλα σὲ μιὰ φωτιά, τρῶνε ἕνα πλῆρες γεῦμα,
Ζεστὰ ροῦχα φοροῦν, κι ἀκόμη καὶ τὰ ζῶα ἔχουν παχνί,
Ἐγώ, ἀπ’ τὴν ἀνατολὴ ὡς τὴ δύση τοῦ ἥλιου,
Χίλιες διακόσιες βαθιὲς κάνω μετάνοιες
Στὸν Χριστό, τὴν Παρθένα Μαρία καὶ τοὺς Ἁγίους∙
Ἢ τὴ νύχτα, μετὰ ἀπὸ λίγον ὕπνο,
Ξυπνῶ∙ τὰ παγωμένα ἄστρα λαμπυρίζουν∙ μουσκεμένος εἶμαι
Ὣς τὸ κόκαλο ἀπὸ τὴ νοτιᾶ ἢ ξυλιασμένος ἀπὸ τὴν παγωνιά.
Φορῶ μιὰ γιδίσια προβιὰ στὴν πλάτη μου∙
Ἕνα σιδερένιο περιλαίμιο σφίγγει καὶ γδέρνει τὸν λαιμό μου∙
Καὶ στὰ ἰσχνά, ἀδύνατα χέρια μου σηκώνω τὸν σταυρὸ
Καὶ μάχομαι καὶ παλεύω μαζί σου ἕως θανάτου.
Ἔλεος, ἔλεος! Καθάρισόν με ἀπὸ τῆς ἁμαρτίας μου!
|
|
O Lord, thou knowest what a man I am;
A sinful man, conceived and born in sin:
'Tis their own doing; this is none of mine;
Lay it not to me. Am I to blame for this,
That here come those that worship me? Ha! ha!
They think that I am somewhat. What am I?
The silly people take me for a saint,
And bring me offerings of fruit and flowers:
|
Ὦ Κύριε, γνωρίζεις τί ἄνθρωπος εἶμαι∙
Ἄνθρωπος ἁμαρτωλὸς συλληφθεὶς καὶ γεννηθεὶς ἐν ἁμαρτίᾳ.
Δικό τους τὸ φταίξιμο, ὄχι δικό μου∙
Μὴν τὸ καταλογίσεις σὲ μένα. Μήπως ἐγὼ φταίω γι’ αὐτό;
Ποὺ ἔρχονται ἐδῶ καὶ μὲ λατρεύουν; Χά! Χά!
Νομίζουν πὼς κάτι εἶμαι. Τί εἶμαι;
Οἱ ἀνόητοι μὲ παίρνουν γιὰ ἅγιο,
Μοῦ φέρνουν δῶρα κι ἀφιερώματα, ἄνθη καὶ φροῦτα∙
|
|
And I, in truth (thou wilt bear witness here)
Have all in all endured as much, and more,
Than many just and holy men, whose names
Are registered and calendared for saints.
|
Κι ἐγώ, στ’ ἀλήθεια -μάρτυς μου Ἐσύ-
Ἔχω συνολικὰ ὑποφέρει ὅσα καὶ περισσότερα ἀπ’ ὅσα
Ὑπέφεραν πολλοὶ δίκαιοι καὶ ἅγιοι ἄνδρες, ποὺ τὰ ὀνόματά τους
Ἔχουν καταγραφεῖ κι ἔχουν ἐπίσημα ἀνακηρυχθεῖ ἅγιοι.
|
|
Good people, you do ill to kneel to me.
What is it I can have done to merit this?
I am a sinner viler than you all.
It may be I have wrought some miracles,
And cured some halt and maimed; but what of that?
It may be, no one, even among the saints,
May match his pains with mine; but what of that?
Yet do not rise; for you may look on me,
And in your looking you may kneel to God.
Speak! is there any of you halt or maimed?
I think you know I have some power with Heaven
From my long penance: let him speak his wish.
|
Καλοί μου ἀνθρῶποι, ἄσχημα κάνετε νὰ γονατίζετε μπροστά μου.
Τί ἔκανα κι ἀξίζω τέτοιο πρᾶγμα;
Εἶμαι ἁμαρτωλὸς χειρότερος ἀπ’ ὅλους σας.
Δὲ λέω, μπορεῖ καὶ νά ’χω κάνει κάποια θαύματα
Καὶ νὰ θεράπευσα κάποιο χωλὸ ἢ σακάτη∙ καὶ τί μ’ αὐτό;
Ἴσως νὰ μὴν ὑπάρχει οὔτε ἕνας, ἀκόμη κι ἅγιος,
Ποὺ νὰ μπορεῖ νὰ παραβγεῖ μαζί μου στὸ μαρτύριο∙ καὶ τί μ’ αὐτό;
Ὅμως μὴ φεύγετε∙ γιατὶ μπορεῖτε ἐμένα νὰ κοιτᾶτε
Κι ἐμὲ κοιτάζοντας νὰ προσκυνᾶτε τὸν Θεό.
Μιλῆστε! Εἶναι κανένας ἀπὸ σᾶς σακάτης ἢ χωλός;
Φαντάζομαι ὅτι ξέρετε πὼς ἔχω κάποια ἐπιρροὴ στὸν Οὐρανὸ
Ἕνεκα τῆς μακρᾶς μου τιμωρίας∙ ἐμπρός, ἂς βγεῖ νὰ πεῖ τί θέλει.
|
|
Yes, I can heal him. Power goes forth from me.
They say that they are healed. Ah, hark! they shout
"St Simeon Stylites." Why, if so,
God reaps a harvest in me! O my soul,
God reaps a harvest in thee. If this be,
Can I work miracles and not be saved?
This is not told of any. They were saints.
It cannot be but that I shall be saved;
Yea, crowned a saint. They shout, "Behold a saint!"
And lower voices saint me from above.
Courage, St Simeon! This dull chrysalis
Cracks into shining wings, and hope ere death
Spreads more and more and more, that God hath now
Sponged and made blank of crimeful record all
My mortal archives.
|
Ναί, μπορῶ νὰ τὸν γιατρέψω. Δύναμη βγαίνει ἀπὸ μέσα μου.
Λένε πὼς γιατρεύτηκαν. Ἀκοῦστε τους! Φωνάζουν
«Ἅγιε Συμεὼν Στυλίτη». Ἀλήθεια, ἂν εἶναι ἔτσι,
Ὁ Θεὸς συνάγει καρπὸ ἐντός μου. Ὦ ψυχή μου,
Ὁ Θεὸς συνάγει καρπὸ ἐντός σου! Ἂν εἶναι ἔτσι,
Μπορῶ νὰ κάνω θαύματα καὶ νὰ μὴ σωθῶ;
Αὐτὸ ποτὲ δὲν ἀκούστηκε. Ὑπῆρξαν ἅγιοι.
Δὲν γίνεται νὰ μὴ σωθῶ, ναί,
Ἅγιος θὰ στεφθῶ. Φωνάζουν, «Κοιτᾶξτε ἕναν ἅγιο!»
Καὶ φωνὲς χαμηλότερες μὲ ἀνακηρύσσουν ἅγιο ἀπὸ ψηλά.
Κουράγιο, Συμεών! Αὐτὴ ἡ μουντὴ χρυσαλλίδα
Σπάζει, πολύχρωμα φτερὰ ἁπλώνει, κι ἡ ἐλπίδα πρὶν ἀπ’ τὸν θάνατο
Ὅλο καὶ πιὸ πολὺ φουντώνει, γιατὶ ὁ Θεὸς
Σφούγγισε τώρα κι ἔσβησε ἀπ’ τὸ φάκελό μου
ὅλα Μου τὰ θανάσιμα κρίματα.
|
|
O my sons, my sons,
I, Simeon of the pillar, by surname
Stylites, among men; I, Simeon,
The watcher on the column till the end;
I, Simeon, whose brain the sunshine bakes;
I, whose bald brows in silent hours become
Unnaturally hoar with rime, do now
From my high nest of penance here proclaim
That Pontius and Iscariot by my side
Showed like fair seraphs. On the coals I lay,
A vessel full of sin: all hell beneath
Made me boil over. Devils plucked my sleeve,
Abaddon and Asmodeus caught at me.
I smote them with the cross; they swarmed again.
|
Τέκνα μου, τέκνα μου,
Ἐγώ, ὁ Συμεὼν τῆς στήλης, ἐπιλεγόμενος
Στυλίτης μεταξὺ τῶν ἀνθρώπων∙ ἐγώ, ὁ Συμεών,
Ὁ βιγλάτορας ἐπὶ τῆς στήλης μέχρι τὸ τέλος∙
Ἐγώ, ὁ Συμεών, ποὺ τὸν νοῦ μου ὁ ἥλιος καμινεύει∙
Ἐγώ, ποὺ τὸ φαλακρό μου κεφάλι ἀφύσικα σκεπάζεται
Σὲ ὧρες σιωπηλὲς μὲ λευκὴ πάχνη, ἐγώ, τώρα, ἐδῶ,
Ἀπὸ τὸ ψηλὸ κατάλυμά μου διακηρύσσω
Πὼς ὁ Πιλάτος καὶ ὁ Ἰσκαριώτης δίπλα μου
Μοιάζουν μὲ οὐράνια Σεραφείμ. Πάνω σὲ κάρβουνα ἤμουν,
Ἀγγεῖο πλῆρες ἀνομίας∙ πᾶσα ἡ κόλαση ἔβραζε
Κάτωθέμου. Διαβόλοι μοῦ εἶχαν ριχτεῖ,
Ὁ Ἀββαδὼν κι ὁ Ἀσμοδαῖος μὲ τραβοῦσαν.
Τοὺς χτύπησα μὲ τὸν σταυρό∙ ξανάρθαν.
|
|
In bed like monstrous apes they crushed my chest:
They flapped my light out as I read: I saw
Their faces grow between me and my book;
With colt-like whinny and with hoggish whine
They burst my prayer. Yet this way was left,
And by this way I 'scaped them. Mortify
Your flesh, like me, with scourges and with thorns;
Smite, shrink not, spare not. If it may be, fast
Whole Lents, and pray. I hardly, with slow steps,
With slow, faint steps, and much exceeding pain,
Have scrambled past those pits of fire, that still
Sing in mine ears. But yield not me the praise:
God only through his bounty hath thought fit,
Among the powers and princes of this world,
To make me an example to mankind,
Which few can reach to. Yet I do not say
But that a time may come -yea, even now,
Now, now, his footsteps smite the threshold stairs
Of life -I say, that time is at the doors
When you may worship me without reproach;
For I will leave my relics in your land,
And you may carve a shrine about my dust,
And burn a fragrant lamp before my bones,
When I am gathered to the glorious saints.
|
Στὸ κρεβάτι σὰν τερατώδεις πίθηκοι συνέθλιψαν τὸ στῆθος μου∙
Ἔσβησαν τὸ κερί μου καθὼς διάβαζα∙ εἶδα
Τὰ πρόσωπά τους νὰ μπαίνουν ἀνάμεσα σὲ μένα καὶ τὸ βιβλίο∙
Μὲ χρεμετισμοὺς ἀλόγων καὶ γρυλλισμοὺς χοίρων
Διέκοψαν τὴν προσευχή μου. Κι ὡστόσο νὰ πῶς τοὺς ἀπέφυγα
Νὰ πῶς ἐντέλει τοὺς διέφυγα. Τιμωρῆστε
Τὴ σάρκα σας ὅπως ἐγώ, μὲ φραγγέλιο καὶ μὲ ἀγκάθια∙
Χτυπῆστε, μὴν ὑποχωρεῖτε, μὴ διστάζετε. Ἂν γίνεται, νηστέψτε
Ὅλη τὴ Τεσσαρακοστή, προσευχηθεῖτε. Μόλις καὶ μετὰ βίας,
Μὲ βήματα ἀργά, ἀδύναμα βήματα, καὶ πόνο ἀνυπόφορο,
Μπόρεσα νὰ ξεφύγω ἀπ’ τὶς φωτιὲς τῆς κόλασης ποὺ ἀκόμα
Σουρίζουνε στ’ αὐτιά μου. Ἀλλὰ μὴ δίνετε σ’ ἐμένα τὸν ἔπαινο∙
Μόνο ὁ Θεός, ὁ γενναιόδωρος, θεώρησε πρέπον,
Ἀπὸ τοὺς ἰσχυροὺς καὶ πρίγκιπες αὐτοῦ τοῦ κόσμου,
Νὰ κάμει ἐμὲ παράδειγμα στὴν ἀνθρωπότητα,
Τέτοιο ποὺ λίγοι δύνανται νὰ φτάσουν. Κι ὡστόσο λέω
Πὼς θά ’ρθεῖ ὁ καιρός – ναί, ἀκόμη καὶ τώρα,
Τώρα, τώρα, τὰ βήματά του ἀντηχοῦν στὸ κατώφλι τῆς ζωῆς –
Λέω πὼς ἔφτασε ἡ ὥρα ποὺ θὰ μπορεῖτε
Νὰ μὲ λατρεύετε χωρὶς ντροπή∙ γιατὶ
Θ’ ἀφήσω τὸ λείψανό μου στὴ δική σας γῆ,
Καὶ σεῖς νὰ φτιάξετε μπορεῖτε ἕνα ἱερὸ γύρω ἀπ’ τὸν τάφο μου,
Θυμίαμα εὐῶδες νὰ καῖτε στὰ ὀστᾶ μου,
Ὅταν ἐγὼ θὰ βρίσκομαι μεταξὺ τῶν ἐνδόξων ἁγίων.
|
|
While I spake then, a sting of shrewdest pain
Ran shrivelling through me, and a cloudlike change,
In passing, with a grosser film made thick
These heavy, horny eyes. The end! the end!
Surely the end! What's here? a shape, a shade,
A flash of light. Is that the angel there
That holds a crown? Come, blessed brother, come.
I know thy glittering face. I waited long;
My brows are ready. What! deny it now?
Nay, draw, draw, draw nigh. So I clutch it. Christ!
'Tis gone: 'tis here again; the crown! the crown!
So now 'tis fitted on and grows to me,
And from it melt the dews of Paradise,
Sweet! sweet! spikenard, and balm, and frankincense.
Ah! let me not be fooled, sweet saints: I trust
That I am whole, and clean, and meet for Heaven.
|
Κι ἐνῷ μιλοῦσα, ἕνας ὀξύς, σουβλερὸς πόνος
Μὲ διαπέρασε, καὶ ἕνα σύννεφο
Περνῶντας, σκοτείνιασε τὰ βαριὰ
Κεράτινα μάτια μου. Τὸ τέλος! Τὸ τέλος!
Βέβαιο τὸ τέλος! Τί τρέχει; Ἕνα σχῆμα, ἕνα σχῆμα,
Μιὰ ἀστραπὴ φωτός! Ὁ ἄγγελος δὲν εἶναι αὐτὸς ἐκεῖ
Ποὺ κρατεῖ τὸ στεφάνι; Ἔλα, ἀδερφέ μου εὐλογημένε, ἔλα!
Γνωρίζω τὸ ἀκτινοβόλο πρόσωπό σου. Περίμενα πολύ∙
Ἡ κεφαλή μου εἶναι ἕτοιμη. Τί; Τὸ ἀρνεῖσαι τώρα;
Ὄχι – ἔλα, ἔλα, ἔλα κοντά. Ἔτσι, τὸ ἁρπάζω. Χριστέ!
Μοῦ ἔφυγε. Ἐδῶ ’ναι πάλι. Τὸ στεφάνι! Τὸ στεφάνι!
Νά το, στὸ κεφάλι μου, μεγαλώνει ἐπάνω μου
Καὶ βγάζει εὐωδιὲς τοῦ Παραδείσου,
Γλυκές! Γλυκές! Νάρδο καὶ βάλσαμο καὶ λιβάνι!
Ὤ, ἂς μὴν ἐξαπατηθῶ, καλοί μου ἅγιοι∙ εὐελπιστῶ
Πὼς εἶμαι ὑγιὴς καὶ καθαρὸς καὶ ἱκανὸς γιὰ τὰ Οὐράνια.
|
|
Speak, if there be a priest, a man of God,
Among you there, and let him presently
Approach, and lean a ladder on the shaft,
|
Μιλῆστε, ἂν ὑπάρχει ἕνας παπᾶς, ἄνθρωπος τοῦ Θεοῦ, ἐκεῖ κάτω
Ἀνάμεσά σας∙ ἀφῆστε τον νὰ βγεῖ ἀμέσως
Καὶ νὰ πλησιάσει, νὰ βάλει μιὰ σκάλα στὴ στήλη
|
|
And climbing up into my airy home,
Deliver me the blessed sacrament;
For by the warning of the Holy Ghost,
I prophesy that I shall die tonight,
A quarter before twelve.
|
Καὶ ν’ ἀνέβει ὡς τὸ ἐναέριο σπίτι μου
Καὶ νὰ μοῦ δώσει τὴ Θεία Κοινωνία.
Γιατὶ τὸ Ἅγιο Πνεῦμα μὲ προειδοποίησε
Καὶ προφητεύω πὼς θὰ πεθάνω ἀπόψε
Στὶς δώδεκα παρὰ τέταρτο.
|
|
But thou, O Lord,
Aid all this foolish people; let them take
Example, pattern: lead them to thy light.
|
Καὶ σύ, Κύριε,
Γίνου ἀρωγὸς αὐτῶν τῶν ἀνόητων ἀνθρώπων∙ ἐπίτρεψέ τους
Νὰ δοῦν τὸ πρότυπο, τὸ παράδειγμα∙ ὁδήγησέ τους στὸ φῶς σου.
|