June would be clammy, January crisp;
and concrete solid, sand unstable.
For there was order. Real order.
People got up and went to work.
And then they watched The Happy FeIlas
at cinemas. For there was order.
In pedigrees and in parades,
political police, and apparatus,
even in parodies — there was order.
People made fun, and were afraid,
only of those they were supposed to,
for there was order, real order.
An order of the bent and bashed.
In hours, in minutes, and in seconds,
in years as well, there was real order.
It would have gone on without end,
but then a certain person fell,
and all this order went to hell.
Июнь был зноен. Январь был зябок.
Бетон был прочен. Песок был зыбок.
Порядок был. Большой порядок.
С утра вставали на работу.
Потом «Веселые ребята»
в кино смотрели. Был порядок.
Он был в породах и парадах,
и в органах, и в аппаратах,
в пародиях — и то порядок.
Над кем не надо — не смеялись,
кого положено — боялись.
Порядок был — большой порядок.
Порядок поротых и гнутых,
в часах, секундах и минутах,
в годах — везде большой порядок.
Он длился б век и вечность длился,
но некий человек свалился,
и весь порядок — развалился.
«The gentleman swayed and dozed in his cabin, swaying / to the right, to the left, and back again. / He swayed alone, restless. / He swayed away from life and what he’d lived. / My friend, you are on your way as well, / but where will we be bound tomorrow? / Believe me: these feeble fac...»
«What use are words and what’s a pen, / When on my heart this rock is weighing, / When like a convict’s ball and chain / Another’s burden I’m conveying? / I used to be a city-boy, / And life for me was full of pleasure, / But now in deserts without joy / The graves I dig are all...»
«Today I was watching as, heavy, your tears they were tumbling, / Upon the black chiffon for ages they glistened and lay, / And how I then wanted to tell you, in spite of my mumbling, / About the white roses that blossom on bush’s green sway. I know that you cannot but beautifully weep on yo...»
«Beside the bird shops on Las Ramblas / A soldier, deafened in the fray, / From thrushes, robins and the warblers / Delighted gaze he couldn’t stay. / And in his ears was roar cemented — / Nocturnal voice of grim grenades. / The constant trills made him demented, / While fledgling j...»