— Stonehewer, stonehewer, whitely arrayed,
What art thou building? For whom?
— Ho, do not baulk us intent on our trade, —
From our building a prison will loom.
— Stonehewer, stonehewer, trowel in hand,
Who then will sob in these walls?
— Not you, nor your brother, rich man, understand,
For theft to your lot never falls.
— Stonehewer, stonehewer, who without sleep
Will abide there long hours of the night?
— Maybe my son will, — he toils for his keep.
And such is the close of our plight.
— Stonehewer, stonehewer, then will he think
Of them who laid bricks here of yore!
— Ho, beware! Beneath ladders from jests you should shrink...
This we ourselves know, give o'er!
___
Note: This is a very inadequate translation of a poem, the precise style of which is extremely difficult to reproduce.
— Каменщик, каменщик в фартуке белом,
Что ты там строишь? кому?
— Эй, не мешай нам, мы заняты делом,
Строим мы, строим тюрьму.
— Каменщик, каменщик с верной лопатой,
Кто же в ней будет рыдать?
— Верно, не ты и не твой брат, богатый.
Незачем вам воровать.
— Каменщик, каменщик, долгие ночи
Кто ж проведет в ней без сна?
— Может быть, сын мой, такой же рабочий.
Тем наша доля полна.
— Каменщик, каменщик, вспомнит, пожалуй,
Тех он, кто нес кирпичи!
— Эй, берегись! под лесами не балуй...
Знаем всё сами, молчи!
«From the elation of the years that faded, / As though from drinking, I feel wearied, jaded. / But still, the sorrow of lost years — like wine, / Grows only stronger in my soul with time. / My road is gloomy. Only work and sorrow / Are promised by the raging seas of morrow. But, o my fri...»
«I can’t sleep, the light is out; / Chasing senseless dreams in gloom. / Clocks at once, inside my room, / Somewhere next to me, resound. / Parcae’s soft and mild chatter, / Sleeping twilight’s noisy flutter, / Life’s commotion — so insane... / Why am I to feel this pain? / ...»
«My friend, it’s time! The heart demands a break — / Day after day flies by, and every hour takes / A bit of being from us, while you and I / Make plans to live together — we may die. / There is no happiness, but there is peace of heart. / So many years I’ve dreamt about this part ...»
«Children run into their izba, / Hail their father, drip with sweat: / "Daddy, Daddy! Come — there is a / Deadman caught inside our net." / "Scary, scary fabrication", / Grumbled back the weary Pa, / "Oh these imps' imagination... / Deadman, really: ya-ha-ha! Hmm... the court may com...»