Расул Гамзатов
(1923-2003)
Журавли
Мне кажется порою, что солдаты,
С кровавых не пришедшие полей,
Не в землю эту полегли когда-то,
А превратились в белых журавлей.
Они до сей поры с времен тех дальних
Летят и подают нам голоса.
Не потому ль так часто и печально
Мы замолкаем, глядя в небеса?
Сегодня, предвечернею порою,
Я вижу, как в тумане журавли
Летят своим определенным строем,
Как по полям людьми они брели.
Они летят, свершают путь свой длинный
И выкликают чьи-то имена.
Не потому ли с кличем журавлиным
От века речь аварская сходна?
Летит, летит по небу клин усталый -
Летит в тумане на исходе дня,
И в том строю есть промежуток малый -
Быть может, это место для меня!
Настанет день, и с журавлиной стаей
Я поплыву в такой же сизой мгле,
Из-под небес по-птичьи окликая
Всех вас, кого оставил на земле.
1965
(Перевод с аварского Наума Гребнева)
d
Literal Translation
The Cranes
Sometimes it seems to me that soldiers
Who have not returned from bloody fields
Lie not in the ground of this earth,
But have turned into white cranes.
To this very day from those far-distant times
They fly and send their voices to us.
Is not this why so frequently and sadly
We fall silent when gazing at the skies?
Today, in the time just before twilight,
I see the cranes in fog,
Flying in their designated ranks,
Just as they, when still people, traipsed across the fields.
They fly, they complete their long journey,
While crying out the names of someone.
Is this not why from time out of mind
The cries of cranes are similar to the Avar language?
On it flies through the sky, that weary wedge,
It flies in haze towards the end of day,
In in the formation there is one small break,
Could be that’s a place reserved for me!
The day will come, and along with the flock of cranes
I’ll fly through that same dove-blue mist,
Chirping my bird cries from beyond the heavens,
Calling out to all of you whom I left on earth.
d
Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R.
Bowie
The Cranes
Could be, it seems at times, that soldiers fallen,
Who breathed their last on fields of bloody strife,
Lie not beneath the earth in graves crestfallen,
But fly as white cranes toward a new, pure life.
Since distant times when they this earth departed,
They fly above and send to us their cries.
Is this why we’re despondent and downhearted,
When silently we gaze at empty skies?
These days I peer in time of evening twilight
At cranes who fly through mist near day’s demise.
They fly aligned, their ranks at ease, dressed right,
As once they marched as soldiers through their lives.
So on they fly, on their wraithlike excursion,
While crying out what sound like long-lost names.
Is this not why the Avars find diversion
In speaking words that sound like cries of cranes?
They fly through skies in weary wedge formation,
In haze toward end of day’s bleak fading light.
The wedge has one small gap, an indentation,
Could that be where I fit into the flight?
The day will come when that dove-blue migration
I’ll join on high, fly with the cranes aligned;
While calling from a spot void of privation,
I’ll send my best to those I’ve left behind.
(original poem written in the Avar language; translated into
Russian by Naum Grebnyov)
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