Heinrich Heine: "The Runestone Juts into the Sea" (From German)

"Es ragt in's Meer der Runenstein"
Heinrich Heine
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

The runestone juts into the sea.
I sit beside it & dream. 
The seawinds skirl. The seagulls cry.
The waves foam away and stream.

I have loved many a pretty girl
And many a good lad in my day.
Where have they gone? The seawinds skirl.
The waves keep streaming away.

Me reading the original:

A. Z. Foreman · "The Runestone justs into the sea" by Heinrich Heine, read in German and in my English translation

The Original:

Es ragt in’s Meer der Runenstein,

Da sitz’ ich mit meinen Träumen.

Es pfeift der Wind, die Möwen schrein,

Die Wellen, die wandern und schäumen.

Ich habe geliebt manch schönes Kind

Und manchen guten Gesellen –

Wo sind sie hin? Es pfeift der Wind,

Es schäumen und wandern die Wellen.

Anonymous: Opening of "Charlemagne and Elfguest" (From Middle Dutch)

"Karel ende Elegast", a medieval Romance about Charlemagne going out stealing in the middle of night on God’s orders, and in the process discovering a conspiracy on his life, is among the most famous pieces of Middle Dutch literature. Surprisingly I can't find anyone who has done a verse-translation into English. I guess if you want a thing done right, you gotta do it your own self. I here translate the first 82 lines of it. 

Opening of Charlemagne and Elfguest
Anonymous
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

There is a real true history
I can tell you. Listen to me:

It happened just as evening fell
While Charlemagne was sleeping well
Along the Rhine at Ingelheim.
The land was all his. At the time 
He was both emperor and king.
Hear what a true yet wondrous thing
Happened Charlemagne back then
(Remembered still by many men)
One night at Palace Ingelheim 
Where he had planned in one day's time
To hold court and wear his crown
So to magnify his renown. 

Now as the king in slumber lay
A holy angel called his way. 
So the king suddenly woke
At these words that angel spoke.
He said "Get up now, noble man.
Get dressed quickly as you can,
Arm yourself. Go out and steal.
God himself bid me reveal
This task to you. He is Lord on high.
Do it, or in dishonor die. 
Unless you ride tonight and thieve,
Evil will befall you. Believe:  
It will be the end of you.
You will die, your life be through
Before this next court finishes.
So now, take good heed of this
And go out stealing. Take your chance. 
Take your shield and take your lance.
Arm yourself. Go, mount your steed
And do not dally. Ride with speed."
This the king heard, open-eared.
It struck him as rather weird. 
There was no one to be seen,
He wondered what that voice might mean.
He assumed he'd dreamt it, and then
Paid it no mind. But once again 
Spoke the heavens' messenger
Angrily to the emperor:
"Get UP Charles. Go out and steal.
 God hath sent me to reveal
This His will. Go out. Ride on.
Do it, or your life is done."
This and nothing more said he.
And the king cried "Mercy me!"
Upset as he had ever been
"What does this freakish happening mean?
Are elf-delusions making me blunder
With figments of this monstrous wonder?
Oh God in heaven, honestly
What need even is there for me
To go out stealing? I am so rich,
There is no man with whom I'd switch,
No man on earth, not king or count,
Whose wealth amounts to my amount,
Unless he is my vassal too
And gives me service as my due.
My land is so massive, there
Is nothing like it anywhere. 
The land is entirely mine
From Cologne upon the Rhine
To as far as Rome which none
Own but the emperor alone.
I am king and my wife queen
From the eastern Danube's stream
To the wild and western sea.
And there's still more that belongs to me:
There's Galicia and Spain
Which I won by battle's reign
When I chased the heathen out
So now it's mine without a doubt. 
Why would I need to thieve at all
Like some pathetic criminal?

Why does God bid this of me?

I would hate to break his decree.

But did he really bid me thieve?

It's a struggle to believe

That the Mighty King of Kings

Wills me the shame of stealing things." 

Audio of me reading the first 76 lines of the original in Middle Dutch:

A. Z. Foreman · Uittreksel van "Karel ende Elegast" in het Middelnederlands vorgelezen

The Original:

Vraeye historie ende al waer 

mach ic u tellen, hoorter naer. 

Het was op enen avontstonde 

dat Karel slapen begonde 

tEngelem op den Rijn.

Dlant was alle gader sijn.

Hi was keyser ende coninc mede. 

Hoort hier wonder ende waerhede! 

Wat den coninc daer ghevel,

dat weten noch die menige wel. 

tEnghelem al daer hi lach

ende waende op den anderen dach 

crone draghen ende houden hof 


omme te meerner sinen lof.

Daer die coninc lach ende sliep, 

een heilich engel aen hem riep, 

so dat die coninc ontbrac

biden woerden die dengel sprac 

hij seyde: “Staet op, edel man. 

Doet haestelic u cleeder an, 

wapent u ende vaert stelen, 

God die hiet mi u bevelen,

die in hemelrike is here,

of ghi verliest lijf ende eere.

En steeldi in deser nacht niet, 

so is u evel gheschiet.

Ghi sulter omme sterven 

ende uwes levens derven

eer emmermeer scheit dit hof.

Nu verwacht u daer of,

vaert stelen of ghi wilt.

Neemt uwen speere ende uwen schilt, 

wapent u, sit op u paert

haestelic ende niet en spaert.

Dit verhoorde die coninc.

Het docht hem een vreemde dinc, 

want hi daer niemant en sach, 

wat dat roepen bedieden mach.

Hi waendet slapende hebben gehoort 

ende hilt hem niet an dat woert. 

Dengel die van Gode quam,

sprac ten coninc als die was gram: 

“Staet op, Karel, ende vaert stelen, 

God die hiet my u bevelen

ende ontbiedet u te voren,

anders hebdi u lijf verloren.”

Met dien woerde sweech hi.

Ende die coninc riep “Ay mi,” 

als die seere was vereent.

“Wat ist dat dit wonder meent? 

Ist alfs ghedroch dat mi quelt 

endit grote wonder telt?

Ay, hemelsche drochtijn, 

wat node soude mij sijn 

te stelene? Ic ben so rike.

En is man in aertrijcke,

weder coninc noch graven,

die so rijc sijn van haven,

sine moeten mi sijn onderdaen 

ende te minen diensten staen.

Mijn lant is so groot,

men vint nyewers sijns ghenoot.

Dlant is algader mijn

tote Colene opten Rijn 

ende tote Romen voort,

alst den keyser toe behoort.

 Ic ben here, mijn wijf is vrouwe,

oest totter wilder Denouwe

ende west totter wilder see.

Nochtans heb ic goets veel meer:

Galissien en Spandien lant,

dat ic selve wan mitter hant,

ende ic die heydene verdreef,

dat mi dlant alleene bleef.

Wat node soude mi sijn dan 

te stelene ellendich man?

Waer om ontbiedet mi dit God? 

Node brekic sijn ghebot - 

wistic dat hijt mi ontbode.

En mochs niet gheloven node 

dat mi God die lachter onste 

dat ic te stelen begonste.”

T. H. Parry-Williams: "Barrenness" (From Welsh)

Barrenness
By T. H. Parry-Williams 

Translated by A.Z. Foreman

It was a treeless world of weather-swept
wilds in Snowdonia around my birth,
bare as if giants had forever kept
smoothing out every slanting slope of earth;
and as I grew up, through boyhood's amazing 
years in our upland home among my own,
those mountains' primal forms would press in, bracing
me till their barrenness became my bone.
And should something of me survive my end

without completely vanishing away

and be discovered by some heart-matched friend

by chance near Snowdon in the dusky day,
he'll see in it no image, no design,
just long-drawn barrenness' bleak outline.

Me reading the original:

A. Z. Foreman · "Moelni" by T. H. Parry Williams read in Welsh and in my English translation

The Original:

Moelni

Nid oedd ond llymder anial byd di-goed 

O gylch fy ngeni yn Eryri draw,

Fel petai’r cewri wedi bod erioed

Yn hir lyfnhau’r llechweddau ar bob llaw; 

A thros fy magu, drwy flynyddoedd syn 

Bachgendod yn ein cartref uchel ni, 

Ymwasgai henffurf y mynyddoedd hyn, 

Nes mynd o’u moelni i mewn i’m hanfod i. 

Ac os bydd peth o’m defnydd yn y byd 

Ar ôl yn rhywle heb ddiflannu’n llwyr,

A’i gael gan gyfaill o gyffelyb fryd

Ar siawns wrth odre’r Wyddfa ’mrig yr hwyr, 

Ni welir arno lun na chynllun chwaith, 

Dim ond amlinell lom y moelni maith

Storm on the Great Moor (From Old Irish)

Storm on the Great Moor

(Anonymous: possibly 9th century)

Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Night falls cold on the Great Moor,
Storming with no small downpour. 
Wind laughs at its whooping flood
Shrieking on shielding wildwood.

Me reading the original Old Irish:

A. Z. Foreman · "Úar ind adaig" read in Old Irish and in English translation

The Original:

Úar ind adaig i móin móir 
feraid dertan ní deróil
dordán fris tib in gaeth glan
geissid ós caille clithar

Dafydd ap Gwilym: The Seagull (From Welsh)

The Seagull

By Dafydd ap Gwilym

Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Seagull floating　on the seething tideflow,
White as moonlight　or wild snow,
Moving in beauty　immaculate, 
As a sunbeam-shard　or sea-gauntlet,
Lightly skimming 　the swell windward,
Swift fish-eating　stately bird
Wont to angle　at anchor with me
Side by side there,　a sea-lily,
Shining letter 　in silvered text,
A nun atop　the sea-tide's crest. 

Perfect girl-symbol 　worth praise in art,
Go for the curves　of castle and rampart.
Keep looking, seagull, 　till you light on her
Gorgeous as Igraine, 　 on the grand tower.
Speak my words 　in sweet concord.
Let her choose me 　and love my word.
If you see her alone 　(since success
With so rare a girl　 takes real deftness)
Then get some nerve　to greet her. Say I,
A well-bred lad,　must win her or die. 

I love that girl, 　my guard of vigor.
No lover has loved 　a lovelier
I'm telling you, men. 　Not Taliesin
Nor flattery-lipped　lusty Merlin.
Such a man-stopper　with copper hair
And superlative form　far too proper.

Oh yes, good gull 　if you do come
To that most charming cheek　 in Christendom,
Unless she answers 　my love kindly
That girl will mean　the end of me.

Audio of me reading the original Welsh:

A. Z. Foreman · "Yr Wylan" by Dafydd ap Gwilym read in Welsh and English translation

The Original:

Yr Wylan

Yr wylan deg ar lanw, dioer,

Unlliw ag eiry neu wenlloer,

Dilwch yw dy degwch di,

Darn fel haul, dyrnfol heli.

Ysgafn ar don eigion wyd,

Esgudfalch edn bysgodfwyd.

Yngo'r aud wrth yr angor

Lawlaw â mi, lili môr.

Llythr unwaith lle'th ariannwyd,

Lleian ym mrig llanw môr wyd.

Cyweirglod bun, cai'r glod bell,

Cyrch ystum caer a chastell.

Edrych a welych, wylan,

Eigr o liw ar y gaer lân.

Dywaid fy ngeiriau dyun,

Dewised fi, dos hyd fun.

Byddai'i hun, beiddia'i hannerch,

Bydd fedrus wrth fwythus ferch

Er budd; dywaid na byddaf,

Fwynwas coeth, fyw onis caf.

Ei charu'r wyf, gwbl nwyf nawdd,

Och wŷr, erioed ni charawdd

Na Merddin wenithfin iach,

Na Thaliesin ei thlysach.

Siprys dyn giprys dan gopr,

Rhagorbryd rhy gyweirbropr.

Och wylan, o chai weled

Grudd y ddyn lanaf o Gred,

Oni chaf fwynaf annerch,

Fy nihenydd fydd y ferch.

Thankful for a Stormy Night (From Old Irish)

This short piece was written by a monk in the margin of an Irish manuscript of Priscian's Institutiones grammaticae. The poem's author welcomes a stormy night free from the risk of attacking Vikings, and supplies us with our earliest attestation of the Irish name for Scandinavia.  

Thankful for a Stormy Night

Anonymous (9th century)

Translated by A.Z. Foreman from Old Irish

Bitter wild winds blow tonight,
Tossing the sea's tress to white.
Good. I don't fear clear seas may
Bring berserkers from Norway.

Audio of me reading the original Old Irish:

A. Z. Foreman · "Is acher in gáeth" read in reconstructed Old Irish pronunciation

The Original:

Is aicher in gáeth in nocht
fu·fúasna fairrge findḟolt;
ní·águr réimm Mora Minn
dond láechraid lainn úa Lothlind

"Summer's Gone" (From Old Irish)

"Summer's Gone"

Anonymous

Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Here's my song.   Sad stags moan.

Winter blows,   summer's gone.

High winds lash.    Low, the sun.

Short, its course.   Seas roar on.

Fall-red fern   loses form.

Wildgeese wail   as the norm.

Cold now holds   each bird's wing.

Icy times.   So I sing.

The Original:

Scél lemm dúib   dordaid dam

snigid gaim   ro·fáith sam

Gáeth ard úar   ísel grían

gair a r-rith   ruirthech rían

Rorúad rath   ro·cleth cruth 

ro·gab gnáth   giugrann guth

Ro·gab úacht   etti én

aigre ré   é mo scél

Vasyl Stus: A Hundred Years (From Ukrainian)

A Hundred Years Since Sich Went Down

By Vasyl' Stus

Translated by A. Z. Foreman

A hundred years since Sich* went down.

Siberia. Solovkí**. Cells creak.

And utter night comes all around

a hellhole land and hellish shriek.

A hundred years of tortured dreams,

hopes, expectations, faith and blood

of sons all branded for their love,

hearts like a hundred blazing beams.

From their bast shoes they grow to run.

From Cossack breeches on the plain

each hut's slave grows into a son

of the one mother called Ukraine.

You shall not perish. You have pith.

Land sacked and slaved for centuries,

They cannot hope to lynch you with

Siberias and Solovkís.

You are still aching with old pain,

in pieces still, still torn and bleeding

but tough already and untamed

you stand with a straight spine for freedom.

You nursed on rage for mother's milk.

You'll have no peace from it. Today

it will keep growing, growing, till

the prison doors are blown away

as storms of jovial thunder blast

bolts from the sky, and native words

— Shevchenko's*** prophesying birds —

soar over the Dnipro at last. 

*Sich - main encampment of the Ukrainian Cossacks until Catherine II ordered it destroyed

** Solovkí — the Solovkí islands were home to an infamous Soviet concentration camp that bore their name. 

***Ukraine's national poet

Audio of me reading the original Ukrainian:

A. Z. Foreman · "A Hundred Years" by Vasyl Stus, read in Ukrainian and in my English translation

The Original:

Сто років як сконала Січ.

Сибір. І соловецькі келії.

І глупа облягає ніч

пекельний край і крик пекельний.

Сто років мучених надій,

і сподівань, і вір, і крові

синів, що за любов тавровані,

сто серць, як сто палахкотінь.

Та виростають з личаків,

із шаровар, з курної хати

раби зростають до синів

своєї України-матері.

Ти вже не згинеш, ти двожилава,

земля, рабована віками,

і не скарать тебе душителям

сибірами і соловками.

Ти ще виболюєшся болем,

ти ще роздерта на шматки,

та вже, крута і непокірна,

ти випросталася для волі,

ти гнівом виросла. Тепер

не матимеш од нього спокою,

йому ж рости і рости, допоки

не упадуть тюремні двері.

І радісним буремним громом

спадають з неба блискавиці,

Тарасові провісні птиці —

слова шугають над Дніпром.

Hryhoriy Chubay: Half a Breath (From Ukrainian)

This translation was originally published in EastWest Literary Forum

Half a Breath

By Hryhoriy Chubay

Translated by A.Z. Foreman

When I am half a breath off from your lips,
When I am half a step away from you you — 

Your pupils are all woven out of wonder
And in your eyes it's all boundless and blue

You whisper something quiet and bewitched.
That whisper bluely cuts my quiet through
And I forget that I know how to breathe,
And I forget my feet can walk to you. 

Your eyelids' raven rises black in flight
And whisks my confidence somewhere remote,
Now half a step is left behind unwalked
And half a breath is stuck here in my throat.

Your pupils are all woven out of wonder

And in your eyes it's all boundless and blue

But there is half a breath left to your lips
And half a step left from my lips to you.    

Recording of the Original:

A. Z. Foreman · "Half A Step" by Hryhoriy Chubay, read in Ukrainian and in my English translation

The Original:

Коли до губ твоїх

Григорій Чубай

Коли до губ твоїх лишається півподиху,

Коли до губ твоїх лишається півкроку -

Зіниці твої виткані із подиву,

В очах у тебе синьо і широко.

Щось шепчеш зачаровано і тихо ти,

Той шепіт мою тишу синьо крає.

І забуваю я, що вмію дихати,

І що ходити вмію, забуваю.

А чорний птах повік твоїх здіймається

І впевненість мою кудись відмає.

Неступленим півкроку залишається,

Півподиху у горлі застрягає.

Зіниці твої виткані із подиву,

В очах у тебе синьо і широко,

Але до губ твоїх лишається півподиху,

До губ твоїх лишається півкроку.

Taras Shevchenko: Testament (From Ukrainian)

Testament

Taras Shevchenko 

Translated by A.Z. Foreman

When I die, then bury me
On a rolling plain.
Raise my barrow in the soil
Of my dear Ukraine
With the wheatfields and the cliffs
Of a plunging shore
In my sight, where I can hear
The booming Dnipro's roar.

When its seaward waters bear
The invaders' blood
From Ukraine, then I will leave
Field and hill for good.
I will quit it all and fly
Bursting up to God
And say prayers..but till then
I don't know a god.

Bury me then rise again
And shatter your chains.
Stand and water freedom with
Blood from tyrant veins.
Then in a new family,
The great kin of the free, 
Say a kindly, quiet word
In my memory.

— Dec. 25, 1845

Me reading the original:

A. Z. Foreman · "Testament" by Taras Shevchentko, read in Ukrainian and English

The Original:

Заповіт

Тарас Шевченко 

Як умру, то поховайте

Мене на могилі

Серед степу широкого

На Вкраїні милій,

Щоб лани широкополі,

І Дніпро, і кручі

Було видно, було чути,

Як реве ревучий.

Як понесе з України

У синєє море

Кров ворожу... отойді я

І лани і гори —

Все покину, і полину

До самого Бога

Молитися... а до того

Я не знаю бога.

Поховайте та вставайте,

Кайдани порвіте

І вражою злою кров’ю

Волю окропіте.

І мене в сем’ї великій,

В сем’ї вольній, новій,

Не забудьте пом’янути

Незлим тихим словом.

Proem to Sir Gawain and the Green Knight (from Middle English)

I posted a throw-away translation of the first stanza of this rightly celebrated Middle English poem just for kicks on Twitter, and people really liked it. Somebody even commissioned me anonymously to do more of it — for God only knows what reason. Not that I'm not appreciative, of course, but it feels like yet another modern English translation of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight is a bit superfluous. I mean, a new version of this thing comes out like every decade, and translating Middle English into modern English feels . And you want yet another? People are weird. Anyway, the complete commission called for the first couple hundred lines, and I'm not posting that much here because reasons. But here's the proem.

On the other hand, most recordings of Middle English literature utterly fail at maintaining what is known about actual Middle English phonology. So, I've included a recording of the two stanzas in the original, in a reconstruction of how English was pronounced in the West Midlands in the late 14th century. 

Proem to Sir Gawain and the Green Knight

By the Gawain Poet (duh)

Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Audio recording of me reading the original

After the siege and the assault　on the city of Troy
When that fortress was felled　in flame into ashes
And the knight who crafted　the cunning decoys
Was tried for his treachery,　the truest on earth,
It was hero Aeneas　and his high-born kin
Who went conquering abroad,　and became masters
Of well-nigh all the wealth　in the Westland Isles.
When Royal Romulus　goes careering to Rome
With strength and splendor　he sets up the city, 
Which is known even now　by the name he gave it,
So too Ticius to Tuscany,　constructing townships
And Longobeard to Lombardy　where he lay foundations,
And far over the French sea,　one Felix Brutus 
On broad-sloping banks　founds Britain, where our story
　　　　　　begins
　　　　Where war and woe and wonders
　　　　Have left their many prints,
　　　　Where happiness and horror
　　　　Have cycled ever since. 
And when this Britain was built　by that brave noble
Bold lords were bred there,　battle-happy men
Who kept turning to trouble　with the returning years.
There have been more awful marvels　met in that country 
Than any other I know of　since the earliest days. 
But of all who there castled, 　of the Kings of Britain,
Great Arthur was the noblest,　as everyone knows.
And so I aim to call up　an epic event
Which has struck many men  　as amazingly strange,
One of the weirdest of all　the wonders of Arthur,
If you will listen to my lay　for a little while
I'll tell it straight as I heard it　recited in the hall
　　　　　　again
　　　　From records rightly written
　　　　With firm and faithful pen,
　　　　Heard loud and long in Britain
　　　　Of old from honest men.

The Original:

Siþen þe sege and þe assaut     watz sesed at troye,

þe borȝ brittened and brent     to brondez and askez

þe tulk þat þe trammes     of tresoun þer wroȝt(e)

watz tried for his tricherie,     þe trewest on erþe:

hit watz ennias þe athel     and his highe kynde

þat siþen depreced prouinces   and patrounes bicome

welneȝe of al þe wele     in þe west iles.

Fro riche romulus to rome     ricchis hym swyþe,

with gret bobbaunce þat burȝ     he biges vpon fyrst(e)

and neuenes hit his aune nome,     as hit now hat(e);

ticius to tuskan     and teldes bigynnes,

langaberde in lumbardie     lyftes vp homes;

and fer ouer þe french flod     felix brutus

on mony bonkkes ful brode     bretayn he settez

                    wyth wynne,

          where werre and wrake and wonder

          bi syþez hatz wont þerinne,

          and oft boþe blysse and blunder

          ful skete hatz skyfted synne.

Ande quen þis bretayn watz bigged    bi þis burn rych(e),

bolde bredden þerinne      baret þat lofden,

in mony turned tyme      tene þat wroȝten.

Mo ferlyes on þis folde      han fallen here oft(e)

þen in any oþer þat I wot      syn þat ilk tyme.

bot of al þat here bult,      of bretaygne kynges,

aye watz arthur þe hendest,      as I haf herde telle.

forþi an aunter in erde      I attle to schewe,

þat a selly in siȝt      summe men hit holden

and an outtrage awenture      of arthurez wonderez.

If ȝe wyl lysten to þis laye      bot on littel quile,

I schal telle hit as tit(e),      as I in toun herde

                    with tonge,

          as hit is stad and stoken

          in stori stif and stronge,

          with lel(e) lettres loken

          in londe so hatz ben longe.

Ghayyar-El ben Ghawth: A Safaitic War Chant (from Old Arabic)

Today we have an ancient Safaitic war chant, a poem discovered and deciphered by Ahmad Al-Jallad at Marabb al-Shurafā', a mudflat in the Ḥarrah of north-eastern Jordan. The inscription is hard to date but probably comes from around the turn of the first centuries BC and AD. 

It seems to me that a Safaitic inscriptional text, especially one this which is thus far unique in its length and register, would have been chanted, given the highly ritualized nature. (Certainly in more recent centuries that seems to have been — and to a degree still is — the traditional Bedouin practice.) So I did that here in reading the original text. I offer my own translation, composed for readability.

Safaitic War Chant

By Ghayyar-El(?)

Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Click to hear me recite the original in a reconstruction of Safaitic Arabic

By Ghayyar-El son of Ghawth of the line of Hathay, from when he left his folk

      Now let him camp for war
            So be his final campment here today
      Fame for him is first
            So be his final campment here today

      He suffers who returns
            So be his final campment here today

He made for the marchlands, and alighted in the heath. There he kept watch for his uncle Sakran, exalting him with "Fortune be his". 

So keep him safe, Allāt.

The Original:

(Tracing done by Al-Jallad)

𐩡𐩶𐩺𐩧𐩱𐩡𐩨𐩬𐩶𐩻𐩹𐩱𐩡𐩢𐩼𐩺𐩥𐩧𐩢𐩡 𐩣𐩱𐩠𐩡𐩠

𐩰𐩢𐩡𐩡𐩠𐩣𐩢𐩧𐩨

𐩰𐩠𐩺𐩣𐩠𐩬𐩱𐩭𐩧𐩢𐩡𐩡

𐩧𐩱𐩪𐩹𐩫𐩧𐩩

𐩰𐩠𐩺𐩣𐩠𐩬𐩱𐩭𐩧𐩢𐩡𐩡

𐩲𐩬𐩺𐩣𐩬𐩢𐩮𐩰

𐩰𐩠𐩺𐩣𐩠𐩬𐩱𐩭𐩧𐩢𐩡𐩡

𐩢𐩵𐩵𐩥𐩻𐩥𐩺𐩨𐩠𐩧𐩳𐩩𐩥𐩭𐩧𐩮𐩭𐩡𐩠𐩪𐩫𐩧𐩬𐩺𐩧𐩨𐩰𐩠𐩨𐩤𐩡𐩰𐩸𐩠

𐩰𐩠𐩡𐩩𐩪𐩡𐩣