Винокур Александр Борисович : другие произведения.

The End of the Season (Автопереводы)

Самиздат: [Регистрация] [Найти] [Рейтинги] [Обсуждения] [Новинки] [Обзоры] [Помощь|Техвопросы]
Школа кожевенного мастерства: сумки, ремни своими руками
 Ваша оценка:

      Trial word for word translation from Russian into English 


      A mist has sank on the fields 
      And the world come into being as rough copy 
      Which everything is vague in, 
      But it is impossible to add or cast away something. 

      In that way the world is caught in travel drawing. 
      You are the one that has been dictating the shape of the day giving up all details. 
      And the world that is so colorful 
      Is paler than your black-and-white drawing. 


      Here is a dancing couple. 
      She is in a white dress. 
      And she herself is white like whitened with chalk, 
      And he himself is paler than a ghost. 

      The summer season is coming to an end. 
      The couple is the last dancing one. 
      They are dancing being no match for each other. 
      And castles in the air have been melting away. 


      The clouds are hanging over the town 
      As though someone's imperious hand 
      Held them here and didn't let them float away 
      To another heaven, where the life is free and easy. 

      To another heaven, where space is broad. 
      There clouds fly together just as children assemble at a sand-pit, 
      And after that melt away aloft 
      To rain down in spring. 


      White haze hides tops of the trees. 
      The day breaks out early 
      Not heaving the time 
      To see out the night... 

      It had been pouring with rain for a long time. 
      And completing the flight, 
      Muddy waters flowed 
      And overflowed the rivers' banks. 


      The air and the lake-water are transparent. 
      Here has fallen a firmament into the lake 
      And the sinking star is lying 
      Just next to the berth. 

      The islets have scattered 
      Like kids from the house's gateway... 
      Lights of the offshore buildings 
      Will not be able to call until we get an answer today. 


      The autumn days are inimitable in their beauty. 
      The air of September is transparent. 
      Forests' vast attire seems 
      To be created by the highest powers 

      All hopes that used to be in May are lost. 
      There are only two things that have been reflected in the stream. 
      The are the flights of the falling yellow leaves 
      And your hand in my hand. 


      The leaves are tossing around the street. 
      Dust and sand are crunching on the teeth... 
      The autumn has grown decrepit. 
      The winter is just about to move silently. 

      The scanty sun is bidding farewell. 
      It is sparing each ray. 
      Snow is trying to fall, 
      However it turns into rain. 


      It is raining on the town which caught a cold. 
      It has been getting dark early. 
      Someone has turned the lamps on the street. 
      The Catholic churches are like collars turned up till daybreak. 

      It is warn in cosy in our room... 
      Only the grains of the rain tears 
      Have been rolling down again and again 
      Reminding that living and not weeping is impossible. 


      Make yourself ready for your heavy lot. 
      Just like the wind bursts into an open country side 
      The words will come to you, and you being delirious. 
      They will stay with you for a short time and then they will go away. 

      Being connected with highes strength, 
      You know that there is a power over divine things. 
      Having lost it, you have been suffering 
      And are imploring that it should be found. 


      I highly appreciate what has been gained through suffering.
      It is the only close connection with real existence. 
      It has no candy-box beauty, but it does have the strength 
      Making the genuine beauty spring up. 

      It sums up our thought, and we recognizing 
      That only those feelings are great, 
      Which occur not according to sense. 
      But against it. 


      I am human being. I am a ruler of nature. 
      There are plenty of us who are such kings. 
      However all wars including wars between nations 
      Are more terrible than battles among wild animals. 

      Why does it happen, 
      That the one, whom the power is given to, 
      Has a hunger 
      To abuse it as force? 


      The violator is in the next room. 
      He knows than the matter is decided by force of the hands. 
      He also knows that he is all-powerful, 
      Although the range of his force is narrow. 

      It is so narrow that only an occasion 
      Enables us to get to know about it. 
      However this range is so wide that it will force to stop our existence, 
      Impelling to keep the happening dark. 


      A god living on earth is stronger than God living in heaven...
      There are a lot of deities that has been brought up by us. 
      The live on our white bread. 
      They hold sway over our minds and hearts. 

      However, the whole of their trouble is that they are descended from us. 
      They are the same flesh and blood that brought us into the world. 
      Would it be surprising if one day 
      We discover how ordinary their affairs are? 


      Who has awaited genuflections? 
      That is the one who is always ready to kneel himself down 
      To worship man-made gods 
      Without having any doubts. 

      Having shaken the dust off his knees right after 
      And being a god himself on his allotment, 
      He starts waiting for newer gifts 
      From those who are lying prone by his feet. 


      The meaning of undertints and undershades is difficult to catch.
      When it is white, they are black. 
      When it is black, they are white. 
      Which are they bringing : split or reconciliation?.. 
      Their sense is imperceptible. 


      'Me' of a year ago and 'Me' of today
      Are two unacquainted persons. 
      It is not worth making their acquaintance between them. 
      They will never understand each other. 


      The path through life is like the river flow [stream]. 
      It is hurrying on in the middle of the canyons, 
      It is slowly moving across the plains, 
      Without chosing its way. 
      Because the way is only one. 

      That is the first way. 
      That is the last way as well. 


      Which was right : 
      Jordano Bruno or Galileo Galiley? 
      The former said just what he thought, 
      The late denied his own ideas. 

      The result of these 'conversations' is natural. 
      The later has been burnt at the stake, 
      The former has remained alive. However, having been silent and confused, 
      He has lost the peace forever... 

      Both of them are no more. 
      Nevertheless, even in today's most educated age 
      Everyone is forced to make such a decision, 
      While being full of fear. 


      Poison is a killer as well as a savior.
      The dose is that decides the fate. 
      Every compiler of prescriptions must know 
      How to employ the necessary dose in every case. 

      ...Anything which is held within us is ambiguous as well. 
      Today we are living in passion, 
      Tomorrow the same passion may crush us 
      As though a gale breaks a ship's mast. 


      The past has weighed on the heart. 
      However, it is impossible to come back, 
      Because not live faces will be seen, 
      Old portraits only remained from faces that were alive. 


      Russia has reared up. 
      Its reins are trailing somewhere. 
      Only those will save themselves who will have time to jump off. 
      The rest have no choice but to wait resignedly until their fate. 

      ...Is it really possible to help those 
      Who don't help themselves, 
      Who don't live but live out their days, 
      Being unable to overcome themselves. 

      How shortish the choice is: 
      It is impossible neither to jump off nor to hold on... 
      Life had been expected to be pleasure, 
      However, hopes turned out broken. Attempted life did not succeeded. 


      We used to believe
      That history would not touch us, 
      That after going over our fathers 
      It would leave us in peace. 

      However, only having taken a short rest, 
      It is preparing for a new feast 
      Like beast of prey... 
      Most likely, we are not given the chance to finish reading this book. 


      A war is being fought. It is not somewhere about there, but close to us.
      For the present, it goes on not in our house. Only for the time being. 
      We don't know when the ware will come to us. 
      Nevertheless, we do know that it is about to come. 

      What does it matter that we are not to blame? 
      The times that have come are entirely different. 
      Our clothes won't be changed for soldiers' clothes, 
      Because this war is going to be a civil one, you know. 


      Here is suffering Hamlet. A matinee is on from two till four. 
      In the evening Saliery is preparing the poison. 
      The denouement is terribly bad : 
      Everyone will be killed. However, we think of getting out. 

      Is that a play? Is that life? 
      One the light goes out, murders and betrayals begin. 
      Now we see all that and we sit in silence... 
      Some day we will be called out to the stage as well. 


      Keep back a tiny bit. Reserve the chance 
      Of being understood in a way that is different from what you intended to. 
      Let them say that what you have created is too complicated. 
      Make them think that you have not succeeded in expressing yourself, 

      That it is impossible to compose both verses and life without taking aim... 
      You know the point, 
      Truth is born as heresy. 
      It turns into truth afterwards. 

 Ваша оценка:

Связаться с программистом сайта.

Новые книги авторов СИ, вышедшие из печати:
О.Болдырева "Крадуш. Чужие души" М.Николаев "Вторжение на Землю"

Как попасть в этoт список

Кожевенное мастерство | Сайт "Художники" | Доска об'явлений "Книги"