Тристан [Tristan] [English translation]

Was it you given out before the proper moment

Only by a clink of ragged stirrup?

Was the present melody all about you, prince?

Was it about you, my silver one?

The taut metal rang in your arms,

He saw it and knew it, still couldn’t believe it.

Was she to you a lyre or a blade? (1)

You became as steel, in sleep you were hurting.

You didn’t argue with her love at all!

To the enemy camp of black cavalry

Returned the faithful Tristan.

He galloped away to the four winds,

Sang about her on the mountain paths.

He measured the distance of days by the horses’ manes,

Where his horse raced like a raven.

He forgot his home because of ice and fire.

The pristine rain revived him

From the ashes he was burned in.

He was burned in…

My silver one, the spirited metal

Pounded as a heart; he read at night

Between the melody, between the lines:

She is your blade, she is

The steel you slept beside.

You didn’t argue with neither the blade nor the lyre.

And to the mountain camp of crow flocks

Tristan as a wolf has returned,

The faithful Tristan.