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.
«Forget the loss belated and early celebration / When moon wheels hit the roadway in time for separation. / The profile of an owl looks down from the cart, / The simple song of crickets storms right into the heart. She's watching from her doorstep, her beauty slowly failing, / The prideful a...»
«My jacket had its days of wear. / It’s lost the look and gotten paler. / And so I take it to a tailor / To have it altered here and there. I tell him jokingly, just so, / "I’d like a total alteration, / New luck will come from your creation, / From your fine art of cut-and-sew." It...»
«Fire in the fireplace is blazing beside me. / Shadow, my shadow is cold on the wall. / Sir, from now on, you are living inside me... / Cry over me, autumn rain, as you fall. I’ll search the world, I can travel wherever, / Shadow, my shadow is cold on the wall. / Restless without you, I...»
«Mozart's old violin carries his music. / Mozart’s old bow is singing the song. / Mozart belongs to no land of his choosing – / He is the one who just plays all life long. Look, it’s okay that our fate, manifestly, / Deals it as is, now a kill then a kiss… / Please don’t give up ...»