Those poems that I wrote and forgot
and burnt before I could forget them —
there are not enough hammers and chisels
to knock them down and beat them down.
Those poems that I shouted out on the radio
and published in the newspaper:
better for me to have silenced them, so to speak —
I forged not steel but paper.
No matter! I'm still walking and breathing.
I'll still write something more revealing.
Те стихи, что я написал и забыл
И сжег перед тем, как забыть —
Не хватило б резцов, недостало б зубил,
Чтобы их сковырнуть или сбить.
Те стихи, что по радио я прокричал
И в газете опубликовал —
Лучше я бы их, так сказать, промолчал,
Я не сталь, а бумагу ковал.
Ничего! Я покуда хожу и дышу.
Я еще настоящее напишу.
«How many birch trees did you see in this world? / It’s likely — just two, maybe three, / All trimmed with the silver of first winter cold / Or dressed in the green veil of spring Or, maybe, in summer you’d come back at home, / And sunlight would fill all your place, / And through op...»
«A human being, as much as he is grand, / Essentially, is just a thinking plant. / We are related to all trees and grass, / And their kinship can’t belittle us. / We're given from before our birth / The steadfastness of plants, their life force.»
«Although the ages wait in line, / After we’re gone, to blossom, / The world keeps dying every time, / With every single person.»
«The boy there, on the bagpipes playing, / The girl, who weaves herself a wreath, / Two forest paths that cross while straying, / The fire in the fields beneath — I see it all. I witness it and stow / Deep in my heart, affectionately gentle. / There’s one thing only that I never know /...»