Николай Заболоцкий
(1903-1958)
(1903-1958)
О красоте человеческих лиц
Есть лица, подобные пышным порталам,
Где всюду великое чудится в малом.
Есть лица — подобия жалких лачуг,
Где варится печень и мокнет сычуг.
Иные холодные, мертвые лица
Закрыты решетками, словно темница.
Другие — как башни, в
которых давно
Никто не живет и не смотрит в окно.
Но малую хижинку знал я когда-то,
Была неказиста она, небогата,
Зато из окошка ее на меня
Струилось дыханье весеннего дня.
Поистине мир и велик и чудесен!
Есть лица — подобья
ликующих песен.
Из этих, как солнце, сияющих нот
Составлена песня небесных высот.
1955
c
Literary
Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie
On the Beauty of the
Human Face
Some faces are
like unto lush entry-hall,
Where everything smacks of the great written small.
Some faces are like unto wretched grim hovel,
Where liver fries upon the stove
and cheese-curds moistly grovel.
Some of the
faces are stone-dead and dour,
Dungeon-style barred as in dank oubliette,
Others resemble a derelict tower,
With no one to gaze
out the window lunette.
As for me I
once lived in a small simple shack,
Nothing to brag on, my pad, that’s a fact,
But right through its window and humble entree
Flowed in the breeze
of each sweet vernal day.
Our world is a
wonder, breathtaking indeed!
Without tongues some faces sing songs pedigreed,
Tunes that are jubilant, steeped in pure truth,
Angels on high sing those same notes forsooth.
Where everything smacks of the great written small.
Some faces are like unto wretched grim hovel,
Where liver fries upon the stove
and cheese-curds moistly grovel.
Dungeon-style barred as in dank oubliette,
Others resemble a derelict tower,
With no one to gaze
out the window lunette.
Nothing to brag on, my pad, that’s a fact,
But right through its window and humble entree
Flowed in the breeze
of each sweet vernal day.
Without tongues some faces sing songs pedigreed,
Tunes that are jubilant, steeped in pure truth,
Angels on high sing those same notes forsooth.
