Parzival, Book III
Wolfram von Eschenbach
Book III, lines 3503–3554
Swenne abr er den vogel erschôz,
des schal von sange ê was sô grôz,
sô weinde er und roufte sich;
an sîn hâr kêrt er gerich.
sîp lîp was clâr und fier.
ûf dem plan ame rivier
twuog er sich alle morgen.
erne kunde niht gesorgen,
ez enwaere ob im der vogel sanc.
diu süeze in sîn herze dranc.
daz erstracte im sîniu brüstelîn.
al weinende er life zer künegîn.
Sô sprach si: “wer hât dir getán?
due waere hin ûz ûf den plân.”
ern kunde ir gesagen niht,
als kinden lîhte noch geschiht.
Dem maere gienc si lange nâch.
eins tages si in kapfen sach
ûf die boume nâch der vogele schal.
si wart wol innen, daz zeswal
von der stimme ir kindes brust.
des twanc in art und sîn gelust.
frou Herzeloyde kêrt ir haz
an die vogele, sine wesse umb waz.
si wolt ih schal verkrenken.
ir bûliute und ir enken,
die hiez si vaste gâhen.
vogele wâren baz geriten;
estlîches sterbern wart vermiten.
der beleip dâ lebendic ein teil,
die sît mit sange wurden geil.
der knappe sprach zer künegîn:
“waz wîzet man den vogelîn?”
er gert in frides sâ zestunt.
sîn muotr kust in an den munt.
Diu sprach: “Wes wende ich sîn gebot,
der doch ist der hoeste got?
sulen vogele durch mich freude lân?”
der knappe sprach zer muotr sân:
“ôwê, muotr, waz ist got?”
“sun, ich sage dirz âne spot.
er ist noch liehtr denne der tac,
der antlützes sich bewac
nâch mennischen antlütze.
sun, merke eine witze
und flêhe in umb dîne nôt:
sîn triwe der werlde ie helfe bôt.
Sô heizet einer der helle wirt.
der ist swarz, untriwe in niht verbirt.
von dem kêre dîne gedanke
und ouch von swivels wanke!”
Herzeloyde
Michaela Kotziers
Adaptation of Parzival Book III
The day you shot your first bird dead,
the sound of its song grew.
It started out a whistle, whispering through
leaves caught by your arrow’s test,
but then it rose into your breast
and ripped a hole between
what you had understood to mean
our world removed from history
and you, or where you should be.
The birdsong hardened to a stone
and found a place among your bones
to nest and bite with each new shot
at feathered wings until a spot
of brilliant red on trampled green
— a side of death you’d never seen —
was just enough to newly tear
that hole between small lungs and air.
You ran to me with tear-stained eyes,
a child unable to say why
the silence of a bird’s sweet song
had opened your heart to a world of wrong.
One day I saw you rent your hair
— my child who had never a care —
and watching how the magpie drew
into your chest, I quickly knew
the birds that day would have to die
to keep your thoughts turned from the sky.
The curse of blood, your father’s art,
had somehow found your weakest part.
My darling son, I pulled you near,
and leaves like lips unfolded fear.
I ordered men to find and snatch
from trees all birds that they could catch,
but of those birds remained a few
whose whistles brought that curse anew.
The touch of roses on your skin
had faded to a dew so thin,
As each bird’s death became a fief,
you asked: “What have birds done for strife?”
I kissed you on the mouth and said:
“It’s not through me that birds fall dead,
but surely through the highest god.
How could I walk where he has trod?”
That small word pulled your chest abroad:
“Ôwe, Mother, what is god?”
“Sweet Parzival, I truly say,
that god is lighter than the day,
his countenance made to reflect
the good in man you would expect.
For you may turn in times of need
to he whose greatest loyalty
extends to all found in distress,
so long as faith is not suppressed.
There roams another — lord of hell —
whose loyalty in darkness fell.
Away from him turn all your thoughts,
especially when they are caught
in blinding doubt’s inconstancies.”
Remember how we lived at ease.
