Missak Manouchian: Les couturières

Dédié aux couturières de Paris

Elles sont là, devant la machine à coudre
Au premier rayon du soleil
Et coudront jusqu’à la nuit sans relâche,
S’abreuvant de jour jusqu’à tomber de sommeil.
La commande presse,le travail exige du soin,
Il le faut, sinon, c’est le chômage demain
Qui met à la merci de la misère
Dont le spectre est toujours là, montrant ses crocs.
Ainsi besognent-elles pour un patron
Qui les exploite sans pitié.
Révoltée ou soumise, la couturière
Chaque jour pose en tremblant son coeur sur son pain.
Elles sont les prisonnières malheureuses
De la fortune des grandes villes luxueuses
Et leur vie goutte à goutte s’écoule
Dans la coupe de la richesse et des orgies.
Voici les vieilles sans secours dont les mains sèchent,
Les veuves lasses qui ont tout perdu dans la vie,
Les jeunes filles adorables aux rêves sans mesure,
Qui sans se plaindre, engloutissent leur vie dans la misère.
Le travail sacré s’est changé en monstre.
On s’épuise à vouloir lui échapper
Mais sa griffe est puissante, elle asservit
Lentemant les âmes les plus nobles.
Lorque je vois cette lumière dans vos yeux
Qui s’éteint peu à peu pour un morceau de pain,
O mes soeurs, j’ai le coeur qui saigne, je voudrais
De votre épaule ôter le fardeau de la vie.
Et je serre les dents, et je serre les poings,
Haine et vengeance au fond du coeur...
Versez en moi votre souffrance, pour ranimer la flamme
Sacrée, de la lutte contre l’exploitation.

Missak Manouchian 1924

Revue "EUROPE" Littérature arménienne" fév.mars 1961, PARIS

Translated by Jennifer Manoukian for Modern Poetry in Translation

The Seamstresses

A gift to the Armenian seamstresses of Paris

By the time the first glimmers of sunlight start rising,

They are already sitting at their machines,

Sewing without interruption until the light fades into

The bosom of the blessed night and the torpor of sleep comes.

Orders are completed quickly, and the work must be neat and

Handed over to the boss. Or else there will be nothing the next day,

And the fangs of deprivation look vicious

From behind the dark curtain of misery.

Their overlords, those scoundrels, want meticulous work.

Under the ferocious lashes of exploitation,

The seamstress—at times resisting the fatigue of exertion, at times yielding to it—

Trembles as she weighs her conscience against her bread.

In a civilized city, at a grand table,

These women are slaves who toil all day long,

As their lives drip away drop by drop

Like cheap elixirs of life in goblets of debauchery and decadence…

Sometimes old women fending for themselves, their hands already leathery,

Sometimes widows out of luck, confounded by life,

And sometimes even young women, full of hopes and dreams still burning bright;

They all toss their days into deprivation…

Sacred work becomes a soul-sucking demon,

From whom these drained at times optionless women make every effort to flee.

But he has them caught in his clutches, the clutches of daily life,

Where flights of desire are enslaved against their will…

Whenever I see the boundless light in your eyes,

Light that grows dim and vanishes in exchange for some measly bread each day,

Oh, my sisters, my heart bleeds silently in my chest.

I yearn to take away the exhaustion that weighs heavy on your shoulders.

I clench my fists and grit my teeth;

A rush of hatred and vengeance rips through my soul…

Ah, fill me up! Fill me up with your torment.

May the sacred flame of the struggle against exploitation never flicker out…

6 July, 1934

Paris