[1960s] 622. Дмитрий Кленовский (1893–1976). «Прощаться всего трудней, потому…»[283] It's hardest of all to say goodbye, it is best to be alone to die. For no one at all to be near, instead just an empty room, a chair, a bed, not to see anyone sadly weep, not to have any small dog creep from under your bed to lick your cheek, or a sun ray come through a crack and peek, or a butterfly dart in the window So may it not be spring when I have to go! May I die in the night! When a single star may fall… and another… again… How far easier, maybe, to go away down such an utterly empty way. [1960s] 623. Дмитрий Кленовский (1893–1976). «Я растерял их по пути…»[284] I lost them all along the way, those words 1 failed to clothe in sound. Like swallows on a winter day, never again can they be found. I didn't show them much concern, so they departed, taking wing. And yet perhaps they will return to others, in some future spring? [1960s] 624. Дмитрий Кленовский (1893–1976). В комнате умершего[285] Yes, now it's empty here… His silhouette is gone, it isn't at the desk, nor in the easy-chair. I his stillness! And the thought that he is here no more How can you justify, how can you call it fair? And yet — don't weep! And leave this vacant room! Go down the stairs, stand by the window-pane, look hard into the fading blue of dawn. You see — that's he, there, striding down the lane! Don't try to call — you cannot bring him back! But know: he lives, his life will never end. He had been visiting, and has gone off once more. Listen — he's singing! Far…around the bend. [1960s] 625. Довид Кнут (1900–1955). Я не умру и разве может быть[286] I shall not die. Nor can it be, I know, that earth without me in the gladsome space would draw its thread of fire and ever go along its senseless and its joyful race. It cannot be that after I am gone the earth would blossom, wilt, and roll ahead among the worlds, that trees would rustle on, that snow would circle, after I was dead! It cannot happen. I assure you. I will stubbornly continue on my course, and when the awful hour has come to die will push the coffin's lid with all my force, and I will shout: I do not want it so! I need to feel this gladness that is blind! Shoulder to shoulder with my sweet to go! To give the sun whatever name I find! No in a stuffy box you cannot lay one who has spurned all I want to live, and I shall live, I say and… [1960s]
626. Довид Кнут (1900–1955). «Пусть жизнь становится мутней и непролазней…»[287] Let life grow dimmer, harder every day, let work become more vain, more useless, let men we can speak to seldom come our way, I thank You for the right of living yet. Indeed it is but nothing that one pays: a tear and sigh — for fields, for songs afar, for cherished voices, for a brother's gaze, and for the air of this rejoicing star. [1960s] 627. Михаил Лермонтов (1814–1841). Утес Once a golden cloudlet spent the night on a giant cliff's great rugged breast; than at daybreak speeded on its quest, gaily playing in the azure light. But a spot of moisture lingered, traced in a wrinkle on the ancient stone; lost in thought, the giant stands alone, weeping softly in his barren waste. 10 Jan. 1961 628. Юрий Мандельштам (1908–1943). «Еще я беспокойнее иного…» I am more restless than another still, — a word that's said with casual caress, a furtive glance — still send through me a thrill, alike a tender glance or vivid dress. And even yet to me it is a pleasure to… a fancy, strange and far away to suffer from a rime, at times to measure emotion, caught by chance upon the way But every day the soul does stricter get, obeys the ray that moves not, and I feel that I will teach that same emotion yet, though that same rime to be of sadless zeal And soon, I know, — thanks to the God who takes us onward with a wisdom-guided palm, — we will exchange anxiety that aches for heavenly and light-abounding calm. 11 June 1930 629. Юрий Мандельштам (1908–1943). «К чему стихи? Уже и так от них…» More verse? What for? Already from their curse the soul is sad, as unsuccessful verse. Already, when I barely close my eyes — comparisons to you before me rise. You are w o ndrous than a rose, and, too, more tender than my tenderness for you, or you are sad, a drooping willow tree, or toiling, as a love-abounding bee, or else you dream — and in that mood you stay to me more puzzling than a gloomy day. Our life is plain, less visible by far: and you are worse — yet better loved you are. вернуться From the collection Прикосновенье, Munich, 1959. вернуться From the collection Разрозненная тайна, Munich, 1965. вернуться From the collection Навстречу небу, Frankfurt-on-Maine, 1952 вернуться Unfinished translation from the collection Вторая книга стихов, Paris, 1928. вернуться Unfinished translation from the collection Вторая книга стихов, Paris, 1928. |
