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[Feb. 24th, 2021|02:27 am] |
Под замком напомнили, не буду говорить, кто, хотя
имя этого человека начинается на Н., а фамилия --
на Д., а также на Б. Попробовала перевести (заметь
меня, Митя Манин! Бейсбольная бита тебе в руки), хотя
один куплет я тут ненавижу, но, оказывается, она
играется восьмистишиями. Очень трудно играется,
руки выломаешь. Интересно, угадает ли кто, что это было.
Is there a chance that southern children
Who smell their roses in January,
For whom the snowstorm is hidden
In a fairytale's vocabulary,
In those lands where no clouds
Appear ever in the sky,
The sky, for crying out loud,
Ever the same, the blue, the dry,
Well would you think they could imagine
For a fleeting moment, fast asleep,
Or reading strange and ancient legends,
What does it mean, to dream of spring,
What does it mean, when March is freezing
The stream of blood inside your veins
In cold despair, nightmare unceasing,
To strain your hearing for ice debacles?
Well we have lived through fiercest winters,
Have come to terms with blistering colds
That froze to stone all our tears,
With bitter pride being all that holds,
And snow-hurt, and ice-resentful,
Blindsided by the piercing lies,
We looked, non-seeing and non-sentient,
In the eyes of spring, those greenish eyes. |
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