Owe war sint verswunden"Owê war sint verswunden alliu mîniu jâr!
ist mir mîn leben getroumet, oder ist ez wâr?
daz ich je wânde ez wære, was daz allez iht?
dar nâch hân ich geslâfen und enweiz es niht.
nû bin ich erwachet, und ist mir unbekant
daz mir hie vor was kündic als mîn ander hant.
liut unde lant, dârinne ich von kinde bin erzogen,
die sint mir worden frömde reht als ez sî gelogen.
die mîne gespilen wâren, die sint træge unt alt.
vereitet is daz velt , verhouwen ist der walt:
wan daz daz wazzer fliuzet als ez wîlent flôz,
für wâr mîn ungelücke wande ich wurde grôz.
mich grüezet maneger trâge, der mich bekande ê wol.
diu welt ist allenthalben ungenâden vol.
als ich gedenke an manegen wünneclîchen tac,
die mir sint enpfallen als in daz mer ein slac,
iemer mêre ouwê.
Owê wie jæmerlîche junge liute tuont,
den ê vil hovelîchen ir gemüete stuont!
die kunnen niuwan sorgen: wê wie tuont si sô?
swar ich zer werlte kêre, dâ ist nieman vrô:
der jugende tanzen, singen zergât mit sorgen gar:
nie kein kristenman gesach sô jæmerliche schar.
nû merkent wie den vrouwen ir gebende stât:
die stolzen ritter tragent an dörpellîche wât.
uns sint unsenfte brieve her von Rôme komen,
uns ist erloubet trûren und vreude gar benomen.
daz müet mich inneclîchen (wir lebeten ie vil wol)
daz ich nû für mîn lachen weinen kiesen sol.
die vogele in der wilde betrüebet unser klage:
waz wunders ist ob ich dâ von an vreuden gar verzage?
ôwê waz spriche ich tumber man durch mînen bœsen zorn?
swer dirre wünne volget, hât jene dort verlorn,
iemer mêre ouwê.
Owê wie uns mit süezen dingen ist vergeben!
ich sihe die bittern gallen in dem honege sweben:
diu werlt ist ûzen schœne, wîz grüene unde rôt,
und innân swarzer varwe, vinster sam der tôt.
swen si nû habe verleitet, der schouwe sînen trôst:
er wirt mit swacher buoze grôzer sünde erlôst.
dar an gedenkent, ritter: ez ist iuwer dinc,
ir traget die liehten helme und manegen herten rinc,
dar zuo die vesten schilte und diu gewîhten swert.
wolte got, wan wære ich der segenunge wert!
sô wolde ich nôtic armman verdienen rîchen solt.
joch meine ich niht die huoben noch der hêrren golt:
ich wolte sælden krône êweclîchen tragen:
die mohte ein soldenære mit sîme sper bejagen.
möht ich die lieben reise gevarn über sê,
sô wolte ich denne singen 'wol' und niemêr mêre 'ouwê',
niemer mêre ouwê."
"Alas, where have they gone to, year on weary year?
Was it all a dream then, my life's, my love's career?
Things I took for granted, were they really so?
Sleep, sleep overtook me, and then I didn't know.
Now I have awakened, but like a foreign land
Are things once as familiar as my own right hand.
The people and the places that as a child I knew
Now seem strange and distant, a tale which isn't true.
Children I once played with are no longer young and proud.
The forests have been levelled, the meadows have been ploughed.
But for the river flowing where it always flowed
My heart could never carry its heavy, heavy load.
Some who paid me honour now turn their eyes away;
The world is too ungrateful when one is old and grey.
Fondly I remember what joy there used to be.
Those days have vanished traceless as ripples on the sea,
Evermore, alas!
Alas, for the young people, how lamentable they are.
Once they were so courtly, a better crowd by far.
All they know is worry! Why are they so sad?
Though I search the world over, not one I find is glad.
Dancing, laughing, singing are no-where in their creed.
No Christian ever saw a more pathetic breed.
Just look at how the ladies bind up their hair;
Proud knights attired in costumes the peasantry might wear.
Unlovely, unkind letters have come to us from Rome;
Distress caused at a distance brings despondency at home.
Once we lived not badly. It troubles me within:
When laughter turns to mourning, what then do we win?
The wild birds in the branches, they too lament our plight.
How can I continue to hope for some respite?
Oh, but this is foolish, to be so sorely vexed!
To seek joy in this world is to lose it in the next,
Evermore, alas!
Alas, how we've been poisoned by things which taste so sweet.
If you take the honey, gall is what you'll eat.
The world without is pleasing, white and green and red;
Within, dark black's her colour, dismal like the dead.
Whoever she seduces should look to be redeemed;
Penance for some great sin may be lighter than it seemed.
Take note, you knights, consider! This is your travail:
You wear the shining helmet, he shirt of strong chain mail.
Yours is the sturdy long-shield, the consecrated sword;
I wish that I were worthy of such a bless'd reward.
What riches I, a poor man, could then accumulate.
(I don't mean gold or silver or any vast estate!)
An eternal crown of glory would then my brow enhance;
Any simple soldier could win one with his lance.
If I could cross the ocean, if that could come to pass,
My song would be rejoicing, and nevermore 'alas'!
Nevermore alas!"
Walther von der Vogelweide, 1229
If you should whine, you should do it with style.
