I was captivated straight away,
tired of the lies all around me,
by that proud, tragic tale
of a warrior’s death in the mountains.
And it may have been Roland’s horn
that called me, like Charlemagne,
to a silent pass where the boldest
of many bold fighters lay slain.
I saw a sword lying shattered
after long combat with stone —
a witness to forgotten battles
recorded by stone alone.
And those bitter splinters of steel
have dazzled me many a time.
That tale of helpless defeat
can’t help but overwhelm.
I have held that horn to my lips
and tried more than once to blow,
but I cannot call up the power
of that ballad from long ago.
There may be some skill I’m lacking —
or else I’m not bold enough
to blow in my shy anguish
on Roland’s rust-eaten horn.
Когда-то пленен я был сразу
Средь выдумок, бредней и врак
Трагическим гордым рассказом
О рыцарской смерти в горах.
И звуки Роландова рога
В недетской, ночной тишине
Сквозь лес показали дорогу
И Карлу, и, может быть, мне.
Пришел я в ущелья такие,
Круты, и скользки, и узки,
Где молча погибли лихие
Рыцарские полки.
Я видел разбитый не в битве,
О камень разломанный меч –
Свидетель забытых событий,
Что вызвались горы стеречь.
И эти стальные осколки
Глаза мне слепили не раз,
В горах не тускнеет нисколько
О горьком бессилье рассказ.
И рог поднимал я Роландов,
Изъеденный ржавчиной рог.
Но темы той грозной баллады
Я в рог повторить не мог.
Не то я трубить не умею,
Не то в своей робкой тоске
Запеть эту песню не смею
С заржавленным рогом в руке.
«The bureaucratic trees stand, / Almost reaching into every house. / Their wandering is long over / They are behind bars and under locks. / The crowded boulevards roar / Pressed in tightly by houses. But now all the doors are opening / A whisper travels all around: / The Ivanovs are he...»
«By gates of an abode, blessed, / A man stood, asking for donation, / A beggar, cruelly oppressed / By hunger, thirst and deprivation. He asked just for a peace of bread, / And all his looks were full of anguish, / And was a cold stone laid / Into his stretched arm, thin and languished. ...»
«My lonely heart athirst, I trod / A barren waste when, so 'twas fated, / A winged seraph 'fore me stood: / Where crossed the desert roads he waited. / Upon my orbs of sightless clay / His fingers lightly he did lay. / And like a startled eagle round me / I gazed and saw the earth surro...»
«I’ve ceased to smile long ago, / The bitter winds now chill my lips, / Another hope was just let go, / Another song was added since. / Against my will, I’ll cede this song / To people’s laughter and offense, / Because love’s silence for the soul / Is too unbearably immense.»