Even some of those who have at best
Five short minutes left to live — no more,
Toil and moil without a minute’s rest
As if they had some hundred years in store,
While snowy peaks, coeval with Creation,
In silence stern regarding petty Man,
Stand frozen still in mournful expectation
As if but five more minutes were their span.
Даже те, кому осталось, может,
Пять минут глядеть на белый свет,
Суетятся, лезут вон из кожи,
Словно жить еще им сотни лет.
А вдали в молчанье стовековом
Горы, глядя на шумливый люд,
Замерли, печальны и суровы,
Словно жить всего им пять минут.
Пер. Н. Гребнева
«The evening sky is gold and vast. / I’m soothed by April’s cool caress. / You’re late. Too many years have passed, — / I’m glad to see you, nonetheless. Come closer, sit here by my side, / Be gentle with me, treat me kind: / This old blue notebook — look inside — / I wrot...»
«I am lost in the sky — what to do? / He to whom it is near, reply! / It was easier to ring for you, / Dante's discuses nine. Not I can be sundered from life. / Its dream is: to kill, then to kiss. / And my ears, my eyes, my eyeholes / Overflow with Florentine grief. Then lay not upon...»
«I’m given a body — what to do with thee, / So much unique, so much belong to me? For the quiet happiness to breathe and live / My gratefulness — to whom it shall I give? I’m a gardener and I’m a flower as well, / I’m not alone in th’ earthly prison cell. And all my breath and ...»
«A body was given to me — what to do with it, / So unique and so much my own? For the quiet joy of breathing and living, / Who is it, tell me, that I must thank? I am the gardener, I am the flower as well, / In the dungeon of the world I am not alone. On the glass of eternity has already ...»