Espill - Raimon

Mestre Jaume Roig va nàixer

Probablement a València

A començament del segle

XV.

Se sap amb certesa

Que va morir un dissabte

Quart dia del mes d’abril

L’any mil quatre-cents setanta-

Vuit, en aquesta ciutat

Va estudiar «Medecina

I Arts» a ciutat de Lleida

A l’Estudi General

I a la Sorbona, París

Fou cèlebre com a metge

Examinador de metges

I Conseller de València

I ha passat a la Història

Com autor de la novel·la

Que ell va titular Espill

Escrita en vers tota ella

L’Espill és obra important

D’evident misogínia

Més citada que llegida

Amb més de setze mil versos

Dels quals jo vos en diré

Noranta-set.

Els que calen

Per contar-vos una història

Terrible i esgarrifosa

D’un restaurant de París

On servien carn humana

Segons l’autor, ben cuinada:

Mes, aquell any

Un cas estrany

En lo món nou

Jorn de Ninou

S’hi esdevenc

Jo tinguí el reng

Fiu convidar

Tots, a sopar

E rigolatge

Los de paratge

Qui junt havíem

Allí teniem

De tots potatges;

De carns salvatges;

Volateria;

Pastisseria

Molt preciosa

La pus famosa

De tot París

En un pastís

Capolat, trit

D’hom cap de dit

Hi fon trobat

Fon molt torbat

Qui el conegué;

Reconegué

Que hi trobaria:

Més, hi havia

Un cap d’orella

Carn de vedella

Créiem menjàssem

Ans que hi trobàssem

L’ungla i el dit

Tros mig partit

Tots lo miram

E arbitram

Carn d’hom cert era

La pastissera

Ab dos aidants

Filles ja grans

Era fornera

E tavernera;

Dels que hi venien

Allí bevien

Alguns mataven;

Carn capolaven

Feien pastells

E, dels budells

Feien salsisses

O llonganisses

Del món pus fines

Mare i fadrines

Quants ne tenien

Tants ne venien

E no hi bastaven;

Elles mataven

Alguns vedells:

Ab la carn d’ells

Tot ho cobrien

Assaborien

Ab fines salses

Les dones falses

En un clot tou

Fondo com pou

Descarnats ossos

Cames e tossos

Allí els metien;

E ja l’omplien

Les fembres braves

Cruels e praves

Infels, malvades

E escelerades

Abominables!

Cert, los diables

Com los mataven

Crec les aidaven

E lo dimoni

Faç testimoni

Que en mengí prou:

Mai carn ni brou

Perdius, gallines

Ni francolines

De tal sabor

Tendror, dolçor

Mai no sentí

Per lo matí

De totes tres

Feren quarters;

E llur posada

Fon derrocada

E l’aplanaren

Sal hi sembraren;

E tots los cossos

Tallats a trossos

(cent n’hi comptaren)

I els soterraren

En lloc sagrat

Master Jaume Roig was born

Probably in Valencia

At the beginning of the century

XV

It is known for sure

That he died on a Saturday

Fourth day of April

In the year one thousand four hundred and seventy-

Eight, in this city

He studied "Medicine

And Arts" in the city of Lleida

In the General Study

And at the Sorbonne, Paris

He was famous as a doctor

Medical examiner

And Councilor of Valencia

And it has gone down in History

As the author of the novel

That he titled Espill

Written in verse all over her

The Mirror is an important work

Obviously misogyny

More quoted than read

With more than sixteen thousand verses

Of which I will tell you

ninety seven

The ones that are needed

To tell you a story

Terrible and creepy

From a restaurant in Paris

Where they served human flesh

According to the author, well cooked:

Month, that year

A strange case

In the new world

Jorn de Ninou

I become there

I had the ring

Let's invite

Everyone, to dinner

And laughter

Local ones

who we had together

There we have

Of all stews;

Of wild meats;

Poultry;

Patisserie

very beautiful

The famous pus

From all over Paris

In a cake

Cupola, trit

Thumbs up

Fund found there

Very troubled background

Who knew him;

I recognized

What would you find there:

More, there was

An ear head

Beef

We believe we ate

Wish we were there

The nail and the finger

You take half a game

We all look at it

And we arbitrate

Man flesh it was

The pastry chef

With two assistants

Grown up daughters

She was a baker

And tavern;

Of those who came there

They drank there

Some killed;

Carn capolaven

They made cakes

And, of the intestines

They made sausages

Or sausages

From the world pus fines

Mother and godmothers

How many did they have?

So many were coming

And that was not enough;

They killed

Some calves:

With their meat

They covered everything

They would savor

With fine sauces

The fake women

In a soft puddle

Bottom like well

Fleshless bones

Legs and coughs

They put them there;

And they were already filling it

The brave females

Cruel and wicked

Infidels, wicked

And wicked

Abominable!

Right, the devils

How they killed them

I think they helped them

And the devil

bear witness

That I ate enough:

Never meat or broth

Partridges, chickens

Nor francolins

Such a flavor

Tenderness, sweetness

I never felt

For the morning

Of all three

They made quarters;

And their inn

Overthrown background

And they flattened it

They sowed salt there;

And all the bodies

Cut into pieces

(a hundred were counted)

And they buried them

In a holy place