[Translated from Catalan by Brett Hetherington and Antoni Cardona]
Of Romanesque altars there were no trace. Of the Byzantine cloister nothing remains: alabaster sculptures fell down and the candle is fading like a celestial body that in Canigó will never be lit again.
Like two giants of a holy legion there are still only two bell towers standing: they are the last monks of the environs, that before starting, for the final time, are frowning at the altars’ crumbling.
They are two formidable sentinels that eternity put in Conflent; At their feet the oaks look like Kermes oaks; the country houses of the plain look like sheep at the feet of their gigantic shepherd.
One dark night he was talking to his brother from Cuixà, who asked: Have you lost your voice then? Once your singing woke me up and every morning my voice, blessing God, got entangled with the earth.
I don’t have bells any more answered the mighty bell tower of Saint Martí Oh, who could ever give them back one day! I would like them to toll for the dead monks! To toll for the monks and for me.
How sad, ah, how sad they’ve left me! All afternoon I saw them crying; seven times they turned to see me; For a hundred years I’ve been watching where they walked down the mountain; you who live lower, don’t you see them coming back home?
No! On the Codolat and Prada path I only see miners and farmers: It’s said that the nest is returning to its tree, but, oh, it left our branches Those birds won’t sing about sweet love any more.
Never again! Never again! Those people lie under ground; We are falling down on them; the century which owes so much makes us collapse to the ground in its oblivion our grandeur is buried, our bones and glories and memories are being sold.
—Oh! That era fanned the venerable ashes of Rià’s count, my founder; and turned my chapels into stables, and for the devils it threw out the angels from their nest, they cried in sadness on these summits.
And I cried with them and still I cry but, ah! without hope of consolation, since everything is going away, and I’m missing what won’t come back, quickly, quickly, I’m drooping, a hive where a murmuring bee has died.
—We’ll fall together— the tower of Cuixà answers Besides me I had another bell tower; rival of the hills, it lifted its wide head, and with its booming voice, sweet or wild, imitated a bugle’s sound or the storm’s.
Like me it was nine hundred years old, but, new Mathusala also died; like when Goliath was wounded, all of him fell down, and now his gigantic unburied corpse calls me to his bed.
Before long my deformed bones will bleach white in the Codalet valley my brow weighs heavy, and in the evening when visiting the surrounding land, the moon is surprised to find me standing up.
I’m also going to lie down: from those heights you will come down to rest with me, and ah! whoever is ploughing our graves won’t be able to tell those in future ages where Saint Miquel and Saint Martí had been.
One evening the two bell towers were talking in that way; but, the next morning, when the sun was rising, restarting the finishing hymns, the wood pigeons and the ivy were talking, the first star of the day, to the nightingale.
The mountain smiled, joyful as if for the first time it had put on its verdant coat; showing itself off like a bride adorned with jewellery; like a youthful orange tree it shook off the white bloom of its six thousand snow-banks.
What one century built, the other felled, but God’s monument remains forever; and neither storm, nor blizzard, or hatred and war will make Canigó fall, They will never destroy the proud Pyrenees.
Dels romànics altars no en queda rastre. Del claustre bizantí no en queda res: caigueren les imatges d'alabastre i s'apaga sa llàntia com un astre que en Canigó no s'encendrà mai més.
Com dos gegants d'una legió sagrada sols encara hi ha drets dos campanars: són los monjos darrers de l'encontrada, que ans de partir, per última vegada, contemplen l'enderroc de sos altars.
Són dues formidables sentinelles que en lo Conflent posà l'eternitat; semblen garric los roures al peu d'elles; les masies del pla semblen ovelles al peu de llur pastor agegantat.
Una nit fosca al seu germà parlava lo de Cuixà: -Doncs que has perdut la veu? Alguna hora a ton cant me desvetllava i ma veu a la terra entrelligava cada matí per beneir a Déu.
-Campanes ja no tinc -li responia lo ferreny campanar de sant Martí.- Oh!, qui pogués tornar-me-les un dia! Per tocar a morts pels monjos les voldria! per tocar a morts pels monjos i per mi.
Que tristos, ai, que tristos me deixaren! Tota una tarda los vegí plorar; set vegades per veure'm se giraren; jo aguaito fa cent anys per on baixaren; tu que vius més avall, no els veus tornar?
-No! Pel camí de Codolat i Prada sols minaires obiro i llauradors; diu que torna a son arbre la niuada, mes, ai!, la que deixà nostra brancada no hi cantarà mai més dolces amors.
Mai més! Mai més! Ells jauen sota terra; nosaltres damunt seu anam caient; lo segle que en deu tant ara ens aterra, en son oblit nostra grandor enterra i ossos i glòries i records se'ns ven.
-Ai! ell ventà les cendres venerables del comte de Rià, mon fundador; convertí més capelles en estables, i desniuats los àngels per diables en eixos cims ploraren de tristor.
I jo plorava amb ells i encara ploro, mes, ai!, sens esperança de conhort, puix tot se'n va, i no torna lo que enyoro, i de pressa, de pressa, jo m'esfloro, rusc on l'abell murmuriós s'és mort.
-Caurem plegats -lo de Cuixà contesta-. Jo altre cloquer tenia al meu costat; rival dels puigs, alçava l'ampla testa, i amb sa sonora veu, dolça o feresta, estrafeia el clarí o la tempestat.
Com jo tenia nou-cents anys de vida, mes, nou Matusalem, també morí; com Goliat al rebre la ferida, caigué tot llarg, i ara a son llit me crida son insepult cadavre gegantí.
Abans de gaire ma deforme ossada blanquejarà en la vall de Codalet; lo front me pesa més, i a la vesprada, quan visita la lluna l'encontrada, tota s'estranya de trobar-m´hi dret.
Vaig a ajaure'm també: d'eixes altures tu baixaràs a reposar amb mi, i ai!, qui llaure les nostres sepultures no sabrà dir a les edats futures on foren sant Miquel i sant Martí.-
Aixís un vespre els dos cloquers parlaven; més, l'endemà al matí, al sortir el sol, recomençant los càntics que ells acaben, los tudons amb l'heura conversaven, amb l'estrella del dia el rossinyol.
Somrigué la muntanya engallardida com si estrenàs son verdejant mantell; mostra's com núvia de joiells guarnida; i de ses mil congestes la florida blanca esbandí com taronger novell.
Lo que un segle bastí, l'altre ho aterra, mes resta sempre el monument de Deú; i la tempesta, el torb, l'odi i la guerra al Canigó no el tiraran a terra, no esbrancaran l'altívol Pirineu.
Brett Hetherington 