Евгений Евтушенко
(1933-2017)
Тайны
Тают отроческие тайны,
как туманы на берегах…
Были тайнами — Тони, Тани,
даже с цыпками на ногах.
Были тайнами звёзды, звери,
под осинами стайки опят,
и скрипели таинственно двери —
только в детстве так двери скрипят.
Возникали загадки мира,
словно шарики изо рта
обольстительного факира,
обольщающего неспроста.
Оволшебленные снежинки
опускались в полях и лесах.
Оволшебленные смешинки
У девчонок плясали в глазах.
Мы таинственно что-то шептали
на таинственном льду катка,
и пугливо, как тайна к тайне,
прикасалась к руке рука…
Но пришла неожиданно взрослость.
Износивший свой фрак до дыр,
в чьё-то детство, как в дальнюю область,
гастролировать убыл факир.
Мы, как взрослые, им забыты.
Эх, факир, ты плохой человек.
Нетаинственно до обиды
нам на плечи падает снег.
Где вы, шарики колдовские?
Нетаинственно мы грустим.
Нетаинственны нам другие,
да и мы нетаинственны им.
Ну, а если рука случайно
прикасается, гладя слегка,
это только рука, а не тайна,
понимаете — только рука!
Дайте тайну простую-простую,
тайну — робость и тишину,
тайну худенькую, босую…
Дайте тайну — хотя бы одну!
1960
d
Literal Translation
Mysteries
Adolescent mysteries are
melting,
Like mists on riverbanks
. . .
There were mysteries—Tonyas,
Tanyas,
Even with chilblains on
their legs.
The stars, the wild
animals were mysteries,
Under the aspens the
clusters of honey agaric mushrooms,
And mysteriously doors
would creak—
Only in childhood do
doors so creak.
Enigmas of the world
emerged,
Like little balls from
out of the mouth
Of a seductive conjuror,
Who seduces to some
devious end.
Enchanted snowflakes
Drifted down on the
fields and the woods.
Enchanted specks of
laughter
Danced in the eyes of
the girls.
Mysteriously we whispered
something
On the mysterious ice of
the rink,
And timidly, like a
mystery to a mystery,
We touched hand to hand
. . .
But suddenly
(unexpectantly) adulthood came.
Having worn down his
frockcoat to tatters,
The conjurer absconded,
went off on a gig
Into someone else’s
childhood, as if to a far-off province.
We, as grownups are
forgotten by him.
Hey, conjuror, you’re a
bad guy.
Non-mysteriously to a
fault
The snow falls on our
shoulders.
Where are you, little
magic balls?
Un-mysteriously we
grieve.
Others are not a mystery
to us,
And we are no mystery to
them.
And if by chance a hand
touches,
Lightly caressing
another hand,
That’s only a hand, and
not a mystery,
You understand? Only a
hand!
Give me a garden-variety
mystery,
A mystery—shyness and
silence,
A puny, barefoot little
one . . .
Give me a mystery—at
least just one!
d
Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie
Mysteries
They liquesce, mist away,
the secrets of youth,
Like riverbank haze in
late sun’s twilight . . .
Lasses mysterious—Tashas
and Ruths,
Chilblains on their legs
and a slight overbite.
Some of the secrets were
stars or wild beasts,
Or agaric mushrooms in
clusters ’neath aspens,
And O so mysterious were
the door-creaks,
In childhood only do
doors make such raspings.
This world’s secret
riddles were all put on show,
The spheroids he juggled
with legerdemain,
That spellbinding wizard
whose act reeked of faux,
His wizardry tasting of
fake frangipane.
Soft clumps of snow steeped
in rapturous sigh
Floated, alighted on
woodlands and prairies.
Enraptured specks of
laughs danced by
In eyes of girls, our
contemporaries.
On reticent ice at
mysterious rinks
We whispered our
secretive soft billet-douxs,
And timidly, miming its cryptic
lip syncs,
A hand touched a hand
with sheer mystery suffused.
But all of a sudden we
came out adults.
His frockcoat worn down
to threadbareness,
Absconded the wizard, from
our world avulsed,
Went off on a new gig,
left us unawareness.
Now that we’re grown
he’s a show-biz no-show.
Hey, wizard, you mean
scalawag!
Insipid are flakes of derapturized
snow,
On our shoulders trite snow,
what a drag.
Little spheroids of
magic, where are you?
Shed of mystery our pale
facial features.
The creatures around us
no mysteries accrue,
And we’re no more
mystery to creatures.
A hand comes in contact
with some hand perchance,
Say, touches that other hand,
stroking;
That’s only a hand, not
a sweet circumstance,
You get me? Pedestrian poking!
So bring me a volatile mystery,
you hear?
Send me one secret, clandestine
and diffident,
Just a puny and furtive one,
barefoot, austere,
Small potatoes but
somehow munificent!
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