We have unlearned how to give alms, forgotten
How to breathe the salt air above the sea,
And how to meet the dawn, and in the market
Buy golden lemons for two coins or three.
Ships call on us only by chance, and freight trains
Bring cargoes out of habit, that is all;
Just count the men belonging to my country —
How many dead will answer to the call!
But we have no occasion to be solemn —
A broken knife's no good to work with, but
With the same knife that is all black and broken
Know that immortal pages have been cut.
Мы разучились нищим подавать,
Дышать над морем высотой соленой,
Встречать зарю и в лавках покупать
За медный мусор — золото лимонов.
Случайно к нам заходят корабли,
И рельсы груз проносят по привычке;
Пересчитай людей моей земли —
И сколько мертвых встанет в перекличке.
Но всем торжественно пренебрежем.
Нож сломанный в работе не годится,
Но этим черным, сломанным ножом
Разрезаны бессмертные страницы.
«The clouds are white in the blue dome, and the leafy / Tree-tops have receded clearly into the heights, but the / Dust is already gleaming, and the shadows have lengthened. / And phantoms from afar are gliding towards one’s heart. I do not know whether the tale has been so brief, / Or I h...»
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