Physicists are held in reverence,
Lyricists — let's be truthful —
in the shade.
This is not an ordinary preference,
It's a law, and is as such obeyed.
All it means is that poetic reverie
Sidetracks us from pathways of discovery,
That our verse is so much syrup,
That our feet just miss the stirrup,
That our Pegasus, as has been found,
Merely trots but never leaves the ground.
Physicists deserve the world's esteem,
Lyricists clearly don't, so it would seem.
And it's all so evident and obvious
That to take offence is stupid really.
So, instead of being envious,
Let us watch objectively and coolly
How the foam of measures rhythmic
Drops away in sheer dejection,
And the mantle of distinction
Falls to
spirals logarithmic.
Что-то физики в почете.
Что-то лирики в загоне.
Дело не в сухом расчете,
Дело в мировом законе.
Значит, что-то не раскрыли
Мы,
что следовало нам бы!
Значит, слабенькие крылья —
Наши сладенькие ямбы,
И в пегасовом полете
Не взлетают наши кони...
То-то физики в почете,
То-то лирики в загоне.
Это самоочевидно.
Спорить просто бесполезно.
Так что даже не обидно,
А скорее интересно
Наблюдать, как, словно пена,
Опадают наши рифмы
И величие
степенно
Отстукает в логарифмы.
«"Sister, I have come to take your place, / In the forest, by the fire’s blaze. Your hair grew gray. Over the years, / Your eyes were dulled and fogged by tears. You don’t grasp the bird song from afar. / You don’t see the summer lightning or the stars. Your tambourine no longer plays ...»
«I know, I know — the skis will soon / Again crunch on the snow. / Up in the sky, an orange moon, / And charming slopes below. The palace windows are all bright, / In quietness set back. / No trails and no roads in sight, / Just ice holes shining black. Tree of mermaids, do not welter...»
«A golden dovecote by the water, / A comforting, alluring-green; / The salty breeze wipes out the sheen / From gondolas, restoring order. Strange, gentle people everywhere. / Bright souvenirs in every window: / A winged lion on a pillow / And on the column in the square. Old, faded canv...»
«The prayer rug is all worn out, / The room is gloomy, bleak and cold / And dark-green ivy twines around / The window on the outside wall. The roses stream a fragrant scent, / The icon lamp grows dim and sputters. / Embellished by a loving hand, / The storage chests are bright with flowe...»