Тристан [Tristan] [English translation]

Was this story about you told ahead of time

only by plunk of stirrups torn apart?

Was that lively ornamental script of strings about you, prince?

Was that about you, my silver one?

Tough metal rang in your arms.

You saw and knew but couldn't believe.

Is she your lyre or your blade?

You've become steel, you've slept with pain.

Never argued with her love!

To carrion crows of herds of black horses

Returned faithful Tristan.

You flew in all four directions

Sang about her with mountain roads

Measured miles of days with horse crests

There, where a black horse turned into a crow.

You forgot your home beyond ice and fire

Was resurrected by lucid rain

From ashes in which you were burnt

Were burnt...

My silver one, my living metal.

Were like a heartbeat; at nights you read

Between the strings, between the lines:

She is a blade, it is she who is.

The steel you slept with

Never argued with blade and lyre.

And to mountain camp of carrion crows

Returned as a wolf Tristan.

The proud Tristan.