بوکس باز !


مدتها بود که ميخواستم براتون راجع به يک آهنگ و شعر جاوداني از
Paul Simon بنويسم .
احتمالا خيلي ها اين آهنگ را شنيده اند براي کساني که نشنيده اند
شعر را به انگليسي مينويسم و براي کساني که انگليسي نميخوانند
توضيحي راجع به اشعار ميدهم .

شعر را پسري ميخواند که ميگويد ميخواهم برايتان داستاني از يک پسر
فقير بگويم که به ندرت داستان او را کسي ميگويد !!!!!
و ادامه ميدهد که چگونه خانه را در جستجوي کار در جواني ترک کرده و
به نيويورک رفته و چون قادر به يافتن کار نشده با بي خانمان ها و گدا و
گشنه هاي توي خيابانها زندگي کرده و هر قولي که شنيده مشتي مامبو
جامبوي دروغ بوده همواره به دليل بي خانماني ترسان بوده و گاهي براي
رفع تنهائي و غم خود به فاحشه ها پناه برده و اگرچه زمان گذشته و او حال
پيرتر شده ولي وضع او فرقي نکرده و حال که زمستان سخت نيويورک دارد
ميرسد او آرزو ميکرده که برگردد به خانه خود .
در پايان اشاره اي به بوکسوري ميکند که آثار تمامي مشت هائي که با
دستکش بوکس خورده در او باقي است ولي به عنوان يک جنگنده هنوز
مقاومت ميکند .

اگر اين آهنگ را نشنيده ايد حتما يافته و گوش کنيدش . نانا



The Boxer - Paul Simon & Art Garfunkel

I am just a poor boy, though my story's seldom told
I have squandered my resistance for a pocketful of mumbles, such are promises
All lies and jest, still a man hears what he wants to hear
And disregards the rest
When I left my home and my family, I was no more than a boy
In the company of strangers.....
In the quiet of the railway station, runnin' scared
Laying low, seeking out the poorer quarters, where the ragged people go
Looking for the places only they would know

Seeking only workman's wages, I come looking for a job, but I get no offers.....
Just a come-on from the whores on Seventh Avenue
I do declare, there were times when I was so lonesome
I took some comfort there

Now the years are rolling by me, they are rockin' even me
I am older than I once was, and younger than I'll be, that's not unusual
No it isn't strange, after changes upon changes, we are more or less the same
After changes we are more or less the same ...

And I'm laying out my winter clothes, wishing I was gone, goin' home
Where the New York city winters aren't bleedin' me, leadin' me to go home

In the clearing stands a boxer, and a fighter by his trade
And he carries the reminder of every glove that laid him down or cut him
'Til he cried out in his anger and his shame
I am leaving, I am leaving, but the fighter still remains
Yes, he still remains ...