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.
«What is this gypsy passion for separation, this / readiness to rush off — when we’ve just met? / My head rests in my hands as I / realize, looking into the night that no one turning over our letters has / yet understood how completely and / how deeply faithless we are, which is / to...»
«We shall not escape Hell, my passionate / sisters, we shall drink black resins — / we who sang our praises to the Lord / with every one of our sinews, even the finest, we did not lean over cradles or / spinning wheels at night, and now we are / carried off by an unsteady boat / under ...»
«Some ancestor of mine was a violinist / and a thief into the bargain. / Does this explain my vagrant disposition / and hair that smells of the wind? Dark, curly-haired, hooknosed, he is / the one who steals apricots / from the cart, using my hand. Yes, / he is responsible for my fate. ...»
«I’m glad your sickness is not caused by me. / Mine is not caused by you. I’m glad to know / the heavy earth will never flow away / from us, beneath our feet, and so / we can relax together, and not watch / our words. When our sleeves touch / we shall not drown in waves of rising blus...»