Эдуард Асадов
(1923-2004)
Пустые слова
Ну как это можно, не понимаю!
Просто кругом идет голова:
Все время пустые, пустые слова
Тебя, точно облаком, окружают.
Цветистые, пестрые, равнодушные.
Они кувыркаются в тишине.
И ты их, словно шары воздушные,
Целыми гроздьями даришь мне.
Люди о ком-то порой говорят:
«Необязательный», «необязательная» —
Какие противные прилагательные!
Я б выбросил к черту их все подряд!
Выходит, что чуть ли не все — пустяк:
Слово дается, слово берется…
Прости, но неужто тебе вот так
И впрямь хорошо на земле живется?!
Возможно ли говорить уверенно:
— Приеду. Сделаю. Буду звонить.—
Без тени сомнения говорить
И знать, что ни грамма не будет сделано!
И, не смущаясь и в малой мере,
Плыть дальше, зная наверняка,
Что где-то ждут твоего звонка,
Что кто-то в твое обещанье верит.
Пустые слова, пустые слова!
Фальшивые копии слов счастливых,
Красивые, точно люпин-трава,
И зло-недобрые, как крапива.
Слова: «до последних минут моих!»,
«Верность», «любовь», «счастливая дата!»-
Ты так легко произносишь их,
Что даже становится жутковато.
А в шатких местах у тебя готово:
«Честное слово!» Ну не смешно ли?!
Зачем произносится: «Честное слово!»
А все остальные — лживые, что ли?!
Жизнь — как придуманная история,
Слова — точно мыльные пузыри.
Зачем тебе вся эта бутафория,
Ответь мне, шут тебя подери!
А впрочем, за все говорят дела,
Которых как раз-то и не бывает.
Душа, не рождающая тепла,
Только пустые слова рождает!
Но мира не будет меж мной и ими!
Пойми и на что-то одно решайся:
Или же ты расставайся с ними,
Или со мной расставайся!
d
Literal Translation
Empty
Words
Well, how can that be, I don’t
understand!
It simply has my head in a spin.
Empty, empty words all the time,
Like a cloud enveloping you.
Flowery, multicolored,
indifferent.
In the silence they turn
somersaults.
And, as if they were balloons,
You present whole clusters of them
to me.
People sometimes say about
someone,
“He’s redundant, she’s redundant;”
What despicable adjectives these
are!
I’d like to throw them all to the
devil!
It turns out that almost
everything is trifling;
A word is given, a word is taken
back . . .
Excuse me, but do you really think
One can live well in a world like
that?
Is it possible to say with
assurance,
“I’ll be there. I’ll do it. I’ll
phone you.”
To say things without the shade of
a doubt,
While knowing that not the least
thing will be done!
And not the least embarrassed,
giving it little thought,
You sail on your way, knowing for
sure
That somewhere your phone call is
expected,
That someone believes what you
have promised.
Empty words, empty words!
Fake copies of happy words,
As beautiful as lupines in grass,
And mean and malignant, like
stinging nettles.
The words: “to my final minutes!”
“Faithfulness,” “love,” “a happy
date!”
You pronounce them so easily
That there’s something gruesome
about the whole business.
When you’re in a ticklish position
you have this in reserve:
“Word of honor!” Now isn’t that a
ludicrous thing?
How can we say, “Word of honor,”
As if to imply that all other
words are lies?
Life is like a made-up story,
Words are like soap bubbles.
Why do you need all these fake
stage props?
Answer me, damn you!
Deeds, it is said, account for
everything,
But then, deeds are just what
doesn’t get done.
The soul that does not give birth
to warmth
Gives birth only to empty words!
But there will be no peace between
me and them!
Understand that and decide on one
thing or the other:
Either you part ways with them,
Or you part ways with me!
d
Literary
Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie
Empty
Words
The how and the why of it I’ll
never get!
My head’s in a spin and my brain
rife with drivel.
Empty words, empty words in a
flutter and sizzle,
They swarm around you like
hail-fellow-well met.
Some words are multihued, some
apathetic,
They flip somersaults through the silence
of air.
You buy them, balloons from
balloon-man somewhere,
And give them to me in bright
clusters splenetic.
People will sometimes say things about
people:
“We can do without him, we’ll do
fine without her;”
Such revilements we hear and we
seldom demur.
Those words are akin to stains
noisome and fecal!
So much, it turns out, is sheer paltry
and cheesy,
One gives one one’s word, and then
takes that word back . . .
Tell me now, do you think we
should nurture cheapjack,
Can we stomach a world that’s so
hopelessly sleazy?
Do you in all honesty declare the
following:
“I’ll be there. I’ll do it. I’ll
phone you for sure.”
With utter conviction, with soul
purest pure,
While knowing you’ll do not a
thing that you’re promising!
Insouciant, not the least vexed or
ashamed,
You sail blithefully off, full
aware of your perfidy,
Knowing that someone sits by the
phone yearningly,
Believing your promise, the word
you’ve profaned.
Empty words worlds infest with
their shallowness vile,
All the counterfeit copies of
happiness words,
Fake lovely as lupines, but frail
as puffbirds,
Like nettles they sting and like
sirens beguile.
Words: “to the end of my time on
the Lord’s green earth!”
“Faithfulness,” “true love,” “a
day we’ll remember!”
They trip off your tongue with
such ease, sweet and tender,
And leave me aghast, as if viewing
stillbirth.
When in a tight spot you resort to
this phrase:
“My word of honor!” Stop and
think, what absurdity!
We say “word of honor,” implying
most scurvily
That all other words lie and bend
things crossways!
The plotline of life is hummed on
a kazoo,
Words light as soap bubbles,
disguised in knickknackery.
Why do you need all this phony
gimcrackery?
Answer me, confound your claptrap
and you!
What deeds you get done will
account for your all,
But then deeds go on ever awaiting
their doing.
The soul should be constantly warm
spots accruing,
But the soul to words empty lies
mired in thrall.
Me, I’ll wage endless war with the
emptiness-wordiness!
Get that through your head and
decide on your choice:
Either the twaddle and bunkum devoice,
Or bid me farewell and remain with
the paltriness.
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