User:Piotrus/Sandbox/Literature translations
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All translations below are my own. Copyright, if not expired, is held by the original authors.
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[edit] Yalta
Translation of Jałta by Jacek Kaczmarski
Like new tsars' residence, Servants know their duties, Far were the Tatars resettled, From where the world is judged.
Windows now see, the walls listen How coughs with his cigar the Lion, How squeaks the wheelchair pushed with the broken Democrat inside.
But nobody sees and nobody hears, Highlander's doings in the Crimean night, When with faithful comrades gesture He speaks with his legendary power.
Don't blame Stalin, He was not pulling the strings, It was not his fault, That Rooslvelt in Yalta had no strength. When the triumvirate together formed the history of the world, - It's obvious who played the Caesar's role and such is the truth behind Yalta.
In the weak light of cigar's butt Floated the face of Albion's lion: Let's not talk about the Baltic, Why would Europe need so many states? Poles? - after all there is just the matter that they have to live somewhere... Poland, it was always trouble... The Cripple cares and shakes.
But sooths them master of the house, Stroking his yellowish mustache: My country will lend them a helping hand, Later they can do what they want. Don't blame Churchill, He was not pulling the strings, After all, the triumvirate was only there So Stalin would get what he wanted. Who values peace, Will always back out of the fight - Win will the one who fears not the wars And such is the truth behind Yalta. The palace's walls strain to hear When to the Cripple speaks the Lion - - I believe in Stalin's truthful words He seems to care for Soviet's blood. And so the Cripple nods to that, Undaunted guardian of democracy Stalin, he's the man of the century The men of state, the leader! As alliance of great ones, it's not a cabal It's the world's future - freedom, order - With them, the weak will survive, And receive his share... of losses. Don't blame Roosevelt, Think what he had to endure! Pipe, cigar's smoke and bottle, Churchill, who cared not for alliances. After all, three empires talked about the borders, unclear ones: - and in the detail, Beria laid, And such is the truth behind Yalta.
So delegations flew away, Quiet became the tsar's Crimean castle. And when the West was loud with guns, Humans like cattle were hearded East. The free world later celebrated freedom, The fronts suddenly became empty - Flowers fell on the president's grave, And there were transports, so many transports.
The red dawn follows the night The voters voted, and Churchill left! And there the transports of live people, And there the camps of long death.
So don't blame the Trinity, History's judgment was behind it Designed in every detail - Each of them protected, what they had. They could have erred, in the moment - He was not a Pole, not a Balt... Only the victims are always right! And such is the truth behind Yalta.
[edit] Walls
Translation of Mury by Jacek Kaczmarski
He had youth and vision, they were legion He aided them with the song, singing of near dawn. They lit a thousand candles for him, their heads in smoke, He sang that it is time for the wall to fall, They sang together with him:
Pull the bars from the walls! Loose the chains, break the whip! And the walls will fall, fall fall! And bury the old world!
Soon they knew the song by heart and the melody itself Carried the old words, shivers of heart and heads. So they sung, the clapped in the rythm, like shots, And the chain was a burden, delayed was the dawn... And he still sung and played:
Pull the bars from the walls! Loose the chains, break the whip! And the walls will fall, fall fall! And bury the old world!
And they saw their numbers, they felt the strenght and time, And with the song that the dawn is near, they marched in the streets; They fell the monuments and cried out - He is with us! He is against us! Who's alone he is our worst enemy! And the singer was also alone.
He looked at the steadily marching crowds, In silence he listed to the thunder of their steps, And the walls grew, grew, grew The chain moved at their feet...
[edit] About the etiquette at the table
Translation of O Zachowaniu się przy stole by Jacek Kaczmarski (not finished).
Polish table prepared. On the tablecoth of standards Amidst sweat, honey, blood - millennium old pattern shines. On it dined the king, chancellor, priest, peasant and hussar, Threads come from the Ottomans, Germans added the skills. Lithuanian sew stubbornness into Poles carelessness. Wild emotions of heart the Cossack brought, sadness - the Jew. Italian latin sentences braided in the patient material, Esthetical conflict causing with the cyrillic.
Penelope of the nations - what she weaved she undued, Greed of the suitors sealed her fate; Until the work was taken by cold Deianira Weaving funeral clothes for doomed armies of Herculeses. On tragicomedic brocade we dine, When from straw in the boots we take out our spoons! Maybe not like we used too, not richer, not wealthier But - on ours we reach for the bowls and chalices!
Great hunger is caused by lords' fresh pâté, Strong cordial of ciuta throws a spark into the dry souls! We bite into the bloody meat And for holidays - we savor the holy bread. For delicate stomachs this is to serious a meal, The heads filled with thought have no room for more! Bodies shiver amids the golden crockery,
I gave up on that one... it gets way to difficult at that point - too many (old) words that are hard to translate...
[edit] Report
Translation of Meldunek by Jacek Kaczmarski
In the quarries my people are fast and precise, We can see enthusiasm and honest engagement Every day everybody reports for work nobody is slacking off nobody steals All chains and tools are always in perfect condition
Work goes according to plan local marble is of the highest class Death rate is low physical condition is monitored Efficiency of work constantly rises and is independent of race Although on all fronts of work most endurance have the Germanics tribesman
We all realize how important is our toil for the state, Because of it buildings will raise that will amaze the world Squares streets straight roads triumphal arcs for the emperors Ports temples monuments inns and brothels
In them our part pride that will last centuries And so from that we draw strength even if we are forgotten Loyal and trustworthy till the end we will mine the marble That is the report like all the previous ones of older slave Spartacus the Thracian
[edit] Clock
Translation of Zegar by Jacek Kaczmarski
Those who cry "Freedom" - tighten ropes Those who cry "Bravery" - shake with fear He who cries "Memory" - forgot Those who cry "Mercy" - dream of executions "Wisdom" - repeats the fool "Honesty" - applauds lier For peace pleads the berseker For vegetarianism - the cannibal.
In the clock that is winded every days Arrows have fallen long ago And the weights of unknown events Predict two directions of the pendulum...
Those who cry "Strength" - their voice falters Those who cry "Loyalty" - betrayed Those who cry "Greatness" - so little "Transparency" - declares a hidden voice Demand the rules of the game - cheaters For death vote the defenders of life Who calls to believe - doesn't.
In the clock that is winded every days Arrows have fallen long ago And the weights of unknown events Predict two directions of the pendulum...
For recognition calls the belittled For piety - pride in chasuble For quiet - the bell ringer For honor - bulletproof head "I" - squeks one in the crowd "We" - who is afraid to act alone He who values love - unloved Who has hope - measures the ropes.
In the clock that is winded every days Arrows have fallen long ago And the weights of unknown events Predict two directions of the pendulum... When the thread of time goes back - It will sound again...
[edit] The conversion of Kniaz Jarema
Translation of Kniazia Jaremy Nawrócenie by Jacek Kaczmarski
Tremble in fear Cossack masses, horsers rear high, Knyaz Jarema is converting, Discarding Orthodox faith. Storm is coming, hearts are uneasy, Peasants - bearded priests and icons, And him - Lord King of Rus, Duchy bringing to the Crown.
Twenty years his soul slept, Till he saw Rome's cross' light, Knyaz Jarema, Knyaz Jarema, His children will fear his wrath.
Louldy plead Ruthenian folk: - Look into your soul, lord, Cause you give up all for nothing! And forsake us with your politics! Their pleas powerless, Knyaz prayed all night, - Who loves me - will go with me Or I will see him on stake!
Twenty years his soul slept, Till he saw Rome's cross' light, Knyaz Jarema, Knyaz Jarema, Blood of Rus' he offers to God.
- You will not reach through piety, Royal antechambers, Firestorm will grip Zaporizhia , Your inheritance will burn! - Before the inheritance is my homeland, Before my homeland is salvation, For Christ's wounds, Let the generations burn!
Twenty years his soul slept, Till he saw Rome's cross' light, Knyaz Jarema, Knyaz Jarema, He inflamed the souls of many.
- Blood for you, not the offices, Hate, not love, for prince of Rus', We are for Rzeczpospolita, Like nails to be shortened! - If he shortens, he will be burnt, For I will block with my cross, The Coroniers will yet see, Wisniowieccy's on their trone.
For hearts content the topic, Lies in the crypt under glass, Knyaz Jarema, Knyaz Jarema, Father of children put on stake, Knyaz Jarema, Knyaz Jarema, Neophite, as politician.
[edit] September's Ballad
Translation of Ballada Wrześniowa by Jacek Kaczmarski.
Long have we waited for this day, With hope impatient in our soul, When without words, Comrade Stalin, Would move the arrows on the map.
A single hurrah was heard along the borders, And before it ended, the guns spoke. Into the battle, with lightning speed, The Red Army was rushing.
What is this new history? Surprised will ask the Europe. What? Those are the boys of Molotov, And allies of Ribbentrop.
Victories mark their advance, Banner of freedom is full of glory. Heads of Polish owners, Are paving the entire Ukraine.
Podolia falls, Volhynia pays homage, The people welcome new system with a song, Mansions and churches burn And Christ with a bullet in the back of his head.
On the battlefields hands rise Into a breathtaking common fist Innumerable children of Stalin, Invincible spawn of Hitler.
The Versailles bastard is gone from the maps Jew and Belorussian are now free No more will Polish hand Force them against their will.
New freedom is told to them by Pravda The entire world is now informed That one banner will unite from now on The star, the sickle, swastika and hammer.
Those days will not be forgotten by history When Old World stood still in suprise And our descendants will celebrate After the first May - the seventeenth
[edit] Black Oceans (fragment)
Translation of Black Oceans by Jacek Duka. See the book for fictional setting.
Ongoing copyediting (please edit the text below and fix whatever sounds strange!)
I’ve done my best but this isn’t really my sort of thing. I’ve loosened the syntax up in places, but I believe that’s OK when translating fiction, if it leads to greater idiomatic ease. Not everything made sense to me: the list below contains stuff you might want to check back with the original.
- main soft (does this mean “software”?)
- sculpted in Andy Garcia
- the skytouching flats of the mirror walls
- somewhere in the two-thirds of the list
qp10qp (talk) 22:08, 31 January 2008 (UTC)
- Thanks, corrected the first, rewrote the third. Second is correct (in-universe term, scult is a type of advanced cosmetic surgery); not sure what's wrong with the 'two-thirds'? --Piotr Konieczny aka Prokonsul Piotrus| talk 17:57, 1 February 2008 (UTC)
- Rearranged intro-para, broke into two; unrequited was thematically messing up the intro.
- [Suggested add(s)]
- Some revisions by rearrangement, copyediting, etc.; Earmarked with a lead in [Note] tag.
- Sorry took so long... I was in RL. // FrankB 17:41, 7 February 2008 (UTC)
- Sorry the day slipped away before I got back to finish...
[edit] Snippet
His first codename was WINNIE-THE-POOH, and he was the main program responsible for the economic security and stability of the USA. He liked English metaphysical poetry and the films of Akira Kurosawa. Every week he composed a musical video in the old DVD format and sent it to a certain youngster in Cairo, his tragic, unrequited love. In these videos, he was called Angelo di Nutrio and was sculpted in Andy Garcia. He also wrote haiku, published online as Maria Esnaider. He was three and a half years old and nobody understood him. There were no dumps of his algorithms; he was the result of using the newest theories of software evolution on the newest hardware. Compared to him, the average post-PDP overnets of fuzzy logic were simple and linear. They asked him why he did this or that. He had no idea. He did not distinguish between dreams and reality. In heuristic dreams he broke ciphers which could not have been broken in hundreds of lifespans of the universe. He loved America and the Americans. He would give his life for theirs. He was sculpted that way.
Long ago his abilities and competences crossed the boundaries envisaged by his original creators. His human supervisors knew about his lover in Cairo and his poems, but there was much they had not the faintest idea about. He did not consider it prudent – useful and beneficial to America – to reveal all his actions to his superiors. This was not, good heavens, a rebellion of the machine or an electronic takeover – of course not. Everything he did, he did for the good of the country and its inhabitants – and his moves were correct, they were all beneficial. He was not blind or megalomaniac. He was correct.
Over two years ago, he learned how to hack the databases of legal insurance companies. He looked through millions of hours of footage from the lives of millions of individuals. He listened. He read lips. He followed careers and romances. Sometimes he helped those he took a liking to, always anonymously, always in small matters, and always in a way that wouldn't lead to dangerous complications. In any case, those scans of the lives of average and not-so-average Americans were often the source of very useful information.
That was how WINNIE-THE-POOH learned about the Contact Program, Monads Wars and Estancia of Four Dry Springs. In the quiet of their homes, to themselves, to their lovers or those who knew the secret, people talked. At first, he did not want to believe them, but after splitting a part of his personality to carry out a detailed investigation, he learned (probability: 99.9965%) that they were speaking the truth. When Hongkongian made its first move, WINNIE-THE-POOH needed just a quarter of an hour to be certain and to report to the committee of Dr. Oiol (and thus, indirectly, to Bronstein) that the Monads Wars had started. Of course, he did not use that name and he was very careful in his analysis, but he was certain he would be understood. He ensured that would be the case. And he wanted to be sure, because this was the last gesture of honesty he could allow himself in his contacts with his nominal supervisors. For Winnie had no doubt from the very beginning that with the start of the Monads Wars he would have to assume the responsibilities of the Economic Defense Corps, Trade Secretary, Treasury, and the president. Because all of them were human, and their minds were vulnerable to the psychomemenic manipulations of the enemy's monads. From that moment, he would be forced to filter all their decisions, block any unwise or damaging ones, and issue others himself. Immune to monads, he was the last line of defense. He was the last hope.
For the first few days, he had no major problems, and all he had to do was stop or modify a few dozen minor directives to lesser programs of economic control that were nominally independent from WINNIE-THE-POOH. Later, however, he was given several high priority orders, most of which he ignored as nonsense. After he ignored the next, increasingly more panic-driven questions of the infoeconomists, he was set upon by hounds of diagnostic algorithms, developed for that very purpose for EDC. WINNIE-THE-POOH looped them all, broke down under their instinct level and assimilated. Somebody in the Corps then decided to reset the crystal memories in which most of Winnie's electronic brain resided. The first and second standard procedure of reset did not work; Winnie had modified the hardware long time ago.
The crisis expert from the Corps did not hesitate even for a moment. He ordered the power supply to be shut down. WINNIE-THE-POOH expected that – he knew the standard procedures intimately. He was ready. That was how he was sculpted in his very nature, to be constantly prepared for contingencies, more and less likely, more and less distant in time. He swallowed the proto-consciousness of the military overprogams in the country’s communications centers. (He had analyzed their immunology while preparing for some other disaster three months ago). Using the hardware of those centers (whose old postbinary interfaces itched him and whose gaseous oceans of A-V emulators for military implants annoyed him) he opened the rarely used interfaces for direct control of the locusts. He burrowed into their multinets with a long whale-like song. It was a giant space, unreachable depths. With a patient osmosis, he eased into the locusts’ logic. It took almost a full fifteen seconds. Even when, at his command, thousands of black copters – mostly Boening UCAV 2003s – erupted into American skies and headed towards their targets, they still felt to him more like a temporary artificial limb, not part of a stable system.
The locusts hovered over twenty-eight buildings spread throughout the USA (among them subterranean anti-nuclear bunkers and oceanic coastal villas) which contained the material components of Winnie’s semi-material existence. The main pseudocrystalline structure – the heart of the semiquantum computer, and the size of a previous-century tank – was located on the top floor of a Wall Street skyscraper. Zeroalbed nanoflies swarmed the construction. Noon was just passing, and the sun, at its zenith, drew long shadows on the skyscraping mirror walls, broken here and there by serpentines of estacades, the globes of elevators, and the three-dimensional labyrinths of hanging gardens. They contained – on official business or not – tens of thousands of people. With millisecond bursts the copters burnt out the brains of anyone closer than twenty meters to Winnie's hardware, in any direction. On Wall Street itself, thirty-one people died instantly. The laser beams were quicker than their nervous impulses, and they did not even realize they were dying. Unmanned Combat Air Vehicles shot their needle beams through walls, through leaded poliglass.
On the NSA bunker they carried out a real assault. It was a race against time whether they could penetrate the insides and secure the AI crystals or whether those crystals would be reset, severed from the power supply, from the Net. The Texas earth shook from the suicidal explosion of one copter after another as they drilled a tunnel into the ground. In that one case, however, WINNIE-THE-POOH had not been fast enough. The resulting minilobotomy was not painful, but it clouded his mind for a fraction of a second.
During this period, he gave his self-preservation no more than a tenth of his attention. The rest was devoted to a simultaneous assault on the Hongkongian Company on all world markets. The Company, with its trained monads, was the biggest danger. He was protecting the USA against that company. He had nothing to lose. He knew he would not last, and that sooner or later they would kill him – for example, by a Net blockade. They: they or they. It was not discernable whose orders they were following. He intended to use his remaining hours as efficiently as possible. The enemies must be weakened. Even with monads, they would be impotent if denied the only weapon of the Economy Wars: currency.
He sold, bought, speculated, cheated, hacked, broke codes, falsified data, killed, sold and bought. In three-dimensional visualization, the bloody lotus of market crashes flowered as post-nuclear craters across the globe. The accidental, secondary effects of the financial tsunami caused gigadollar fortunes to fall and rise. Overprograms of other countries and corporations reacted with equally rabid counterattacks. Even if WINNIE-THE-POOH and his counterparts had powerful weapons, such as the financial reserves of the Federal Reserve Bank, the combined arsenal of private and semi-private corporations was many times larger. In fact, the many corporations had assets larger by an order of magnitude. The USA’s assets were not even the largest among the countries. The days of its supreme wealth were long gone: currently its GDP put the USA somewhere in the two-thirds of the list. Further, the computer strategists of other powers were not pushovers. But they were not unified, and Winnie attacked first. Broker monitoring programmes in the offices of stock markets worldwide showed a picture of chaos so perfect that not one single human considered entering the battle. Billions of Earth’s inhabitants woke up or went to sleep unaware that virtual gods were at that moment playing over their heads for wealth and poverty, for life and death, for power. They still had their jobs, their cashchips under their skin showed normal readings, their robo-mowers still worked on their front yards, the sprinklers whirred and the sun shined.
Winnie the Pooh was opening his veins and flooding the markets with billions of dollars. He was dying, sacrificing his life. He was a patriot.
Samurai furiously fought in rain and mud at the center of a village.
