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 joyed in serenades.
The soldier saw the finch’s tweeting
And sonorous fields he then recalled —
He stretched his hand in thoughtful greeting
And quiver on his lips was palled.
What won’t he sell, the market trader?
From what ennui does he torment?
Forgetting songbird, brave crusader
Found hearted hope was all but spent.
So don’t betray your nation’s glory,
And don’t forget how bloom appears,
And don’t give up for chirping story
The blessedness of heedless ears.
На Рамбле возле птичьих лавок
Глухой солдат — он ранен был —
С дроздов, малиновок и славок
Глаз восхищенных не сводил.
В ушах его навек засели
Ночные голоса гранат.
А птиц с ума сводили трели,
И был щеглу щегленок рад.
Солдат, увидев в клюве звуки,
Припомнил звонкие поля,
Он протянул к пичуге руки,
Губами смутно шевеля.
Чем не торгуют на базаре?
Какой не мучают тоской?
Но вот, забыв о певчей твари,
Солдат в сердцах махнул рукой.
Не изменить своей отчизне,
Не вспомнить, как цветут цветы,
И не отдать за щебет жизни
Благословенной глухоты.
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«Wakened by the shadows’ probing / Snowy windows with their arc — / Isaac’s swarthy gold dome’s robing / Glimmers, beautiful and dark. Doleful, snowy morning settles, / Isaac’s cross wears misty shroud. / At the window pigeons nestle, / Snug against the glass they crowd. All i...»
«What I have given is yours. / Shota Rustaveli I speak from underneath the ruins here, / From underneath the landslide I am shrieking, / As if in quicklime now I disappear / Beneath a cellar’s arches, where it’s reeking. And in the winter, silence I will feign, / For good I’ll slam ...»
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