My master — he disliked me from the start.
He never knew me, never saw or heard me,
but all the same he feared me like the plague
and hated me with all his dreary heart.
When I bowed my head before him,
it seemed to him I hid a smile.
When he made me cry, he thought
my tears were crocodile.
And all my life I worked my heart out for him,
each night I lay down late, and got up early.
I loved him and was wounded for his sake.
But nothing I could do would ever take.
I took his portrait everywhere I went,
I hung it up in every but and tent,
I looked and looked, and kept on looking,
and slowly, as the years went past,
his hatred hurt me less and less.
And nowadays it hardly seems to matter:
the age-old truth is men like me
are always hated by their master.
А мой хозяин не любил меня —
Не знал меня, не слышал и не видел,
А всё-таки боялся, как огня,
И сумрачно, угрюмо ненавидел.
Когда меня он плакать заставлял,
Ему казалось: я притворно плачу.
Когда пред ним я голову склонял,
Ему казалось: я усмешку прячу.
А я всю жизнь работал на него,
Ложился поздно, поднимался рано,
Любил его. И за него был ранен.
Но мне не помогало ничего.
А я возил с собой его портрет.
В землянке вешал и в палатке вешал —
Смотрел, смотрел, не уставал смотреть.
И с каждым годом мне всё реже, реже
Обидною казалась нелюбовь.
И ныне настроенья мне не губит
Тот явный факт, что испокон веков
Таких, как я, хозяева не любят.
«A strange alarm weighs on my heart, / Delirium of premonitions. / I look ahead and the road is dark / And perhaps there is no road. But I cannot touch with any words / What is living in me — and in silence. / I do not dare to feel it: / It's like a dream. A dream within a dream. O, m...»
«I'll not go from the door, / Let the night last, let the wind rage. / I'll knock until I fall, / I'll knock until Thou givest answer. I won't give up, nor step aside, / I'll knock, I'll call Thee without fear: / Give me back the one I love! / Raise her from the ashes! Return her to her...»
«The green reflection in the glass door. / Automobiles hum below. / I don't think about my homeland. / Why should I? They killed her. You, of course, will reproach me / For this, for not thinking. / But I only wait for three days to pass: / She will be resurrected in new flesh.»
«Until death itself... Who would have thought? / (A sleigh at the doorstep, wind, snow) / I know, I know. But how could one think / That this is until death? Completely? Forever? Be silent, be silent, we don't need hope / (Evening, wind, snow, houses...)...»