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[Nov. 4th, 2019|12:31 pm] |
Едва ли это кому-то полезно, но пусть будет.
В период аварийного отключения так называемого мозга
слушала покойного Луферова, заодно переводя на английский.
Во всяком случае, это можно петь, хотя какие-то куплеты
я наверняка переставила, и наверняка упростила местами
ритмический рисунок. Только вроде как я долго переводила,
а что-то их тут всего три: Романс о свече на столе,
Музыкант и Листопад. Значит, либо нету, либо куда-то
делись.
Song of A Candle on The Table
When friends are crowded around
A couple of candles and, all night long,
The talk runs in the merry crowd
And nothing ever goes wrong,
The shorter candles, the quieter talks,
As if it's been agreed upon...
Why so silent, dear folks?
Ask someone else, keep quiet, move on.
The candle stub is melting down
And everyone forgets his line,
And every verb has lost its noun
And it's too late to reassign,
They are related, no doubt,
It comes at no one's big surprise,
The flow of words that goes round,
The burning candle that shrinks in size...
As if alive, the flame is prancing;
Look at their play behind your back:
The room, the light, the shadows dancing
To a quietly crackling soundtrack,
We are reminded by that crackle
Of that which was agreed upon:
The lights go out, we go back,
We go home, we move on...
The more I feel the flame's unsteady:
A touch, a breath, and it's all gone,
The sweeter tastes the bitter candy
Of that short time that's running on,
We'll meet again when candles are younger,
When flames are steady, free to dance...
Well that one could have lasted longer
For our sake; it missed the chance.
A Musician
Our yard, a stone water well,
In which a human singer fell,
Oh me, oh my!
He started singing right away
Of other yards where children play,
Of birds that fly,
He sang of doors forever locked,
Of mockingbirds that never mocked,
He sang as well
Of brocken hearts, of merry laughs,
Of people who stumble and fall in love
Like in a well,
Of him who wanders all alone,
Of flowers that fly if thrown
At someone's feet,
He sang of how moonlight falls
To silver-paint those ancient walls,
And sing he did
That deadly fate befell the king,
His squadron lost within a blink
To some dark spell,
The messenger who spurred his horse
Has brought us tears instead of words...
And silence fell.
He looked in those glassy eyes
Of windows, cold as the ice;
He said, "I guess,
My skill is poor, my song was lame,
It is myself I have to blame,"
He said, "Or else,
This yard is cursed with the graveyard's curse,
Those hearts get stale and muffle my voice..."
But up the walls
The frames fly open, like a breath
Long held, and to the one beneath
A flower falls.
A woman looks from up the walls,
From her own hand a flower falls,
And therefore
Let joy swim over your heart,
You are not alone, my happy bard,
Not anymore.
Why stare at windows? Look up,
The sky's knocked over like a cup,
Why don't you sing,
The walls are dark, that much is true,
But what the hell, the sky is blue,
And songs take wing.
And so he sang: "The sun will set,
The evening star will rise, I bet,
That much is true,
Such is the custom in this yard
That windows get shut at night
And this one too,
I will get out through that arc
To stumble at cobblestones in the dark,
But dear me,
That pavement may be sick with rash,
Yet in some heart my song is fresh,
A memory.
He took that flower from the ground,
And through the arc he stumbled out,
And left that yard
And rolling wheels and urban noise
Came from the street and muffled his voice
And it was hard
To get it through the house-thick
Brick walls, yet it was no trick
To catch the thread
Of stone water wells of yards,
Where flowers fall, where singing starts,
Of words unsaid.
Leaf Fall
Come around, come around,
Come together, make a crowd,
Like the leaves caught in the wind,
Talk amiss, cry out loud
In the way that's not allowed,
Make a blunder, miss a hint.
Please drop by and take a smoke,
Light your pipe, take off your cloak,
Brush away the road dust,
No dogs to guard the house,
And the number's same as always,
The door bell still works I trust...
With my patience worn by waiting,
I have opened the window,
And a marple leaf, as if glued,
Stuck to my chest, made a hole
Burning through like some red coal,
Like a brand of solitude. |
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