Translation of Poem by Nikolai Zabolotsky, Николай Заболоцкий, "Ласточка," THE SWALLOW

 

Николай Заболоцкий

(1903-1958)

 

Ласточка

Славно ласточка щебечет,
Ловко крыльями стрижет,
Всем ветрам она перечит,
Но и силы бережет.
Реет верхом, реет низом,
Догоняет комара
И в избушке под карнизом
Отдыхает до утра.

Удивлен ее повадкой,
Устремляюсь я в зенит,
И душа моя касаткой
В отдаленный край летит.
Реет, плачет, словно птица,
В заколдованном краю,
Слабым клювиком стучится
В душу бедную твою.

Но душа твоя угасла,
На дверях висит замок.
Догорело в лампе масло,
И не светит фитилек.
Горько ласточка рыдает
И не знает, как помочь,
И с кладбища улетает
В заколдованную ночь.

1958

 

 

d

 

Literal Translation

 

The Swallow

 

Gloriously the swallow chirps,

Skillfully clips with her wings,

Opposes all the winds,

But preserves her strength.

Flits up, flits down,

Overtakes a mosquito,

And in her little hut beneath the cornice

Rests until the morning.

 

Struck by her behavior,

I rush out into the zenith,

And my soul, hirundine now,

Flies off to distant lands.

It flits, weeps, as a bird does,

In that enchanted realm,

With weak little beak it pecks

At your poor soul.

 

But your soul has expired,

A lock hangs on the doors.

The oil in the lamp has burned down,

And the little wick does not gleam.

Bitterly the swallow sobs

And does not know how to help,

And from the graveyard flies off

Into the enchanted night.

 

d

 

Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

 

The Swallow

 

Through the world chirps the swallow un-chagrined,

Her wings slice the air with consummate perfection; 

Intrepid she fends off the fiercest of winds,

Preserving her strength, never prone to dejection.

Up she flits, down she flits, to the sky’s edge,

Snaps up a mosquito in mid-swoop, and diving,

Into her hovel she scoots neath the ledge;

She’ll rest there till sunrise, at ease with life, thriving.

 

In thrall to her stalwart and sprightly panache,

I set off in search of some far Land of Beulah;

My soul is hirundine, in yearning awash,

Can it be that I’ll find you in Ultima Thule?

My essence swoops up with an avian twitter,

Seeks sustenance, perches on wonderland knoll,

Finds what could be you in a dim spot aglitter,

With its weak little beak pecks at your forlorn soul.

 

But your soul, woe is me, has relinquished all glimmer,

On the door of your lifeforce there hangs a dire lock.

The oil in the lamp has burned down, lost its shimmer,

And the dark has the wick in a wretched headlock. 

The swallow sobs bitterly, tweets out despair,

For she has not a clue how to be of assistance;

With a gurgle-twit cry she goes swoop through the air,

From the graveyard and off into night’s grim persistence.