Love-Lies-Bleeding
ЮРИЙ ЛЕВИТАНСКИЙ
(1922-1996)
(1922-1996)
Как медленно тебя
я забывал!
Не мог тебя забыть, а забывал.
Твой облик от меня отодвигался,
он как бы расплывался, уплывал,
дробился, обволакивался тайною
и таял у неближних берегов —
и это все подобно было таянью,
замедленному таянью снегов.
Сперва я начал руки забывать,
потом и губы вспоминть я не смог,
потом глаза, глаза твои забыл,
и только имя я шепчу губами...
Мне в тех лугах уж больше не бывать.
Наш березняк насупился и смолк,
и ветер на прощанье протрубил
над нашими печальными дубами.
И чем-то горьким пахнет от стогов,
где звук моих шагов уже стихает.
И капля по щеке моей стекает...
О медленное таянье снегов!
1959 г
из книги
"Стороны света"
d
Literary
Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie
Liquescence
Forgetting you eased slowly toward
forgotten,
somehow I couldn’t get forgot begotten.
Your visage moved away in slow receding,
a blurred and fading bloom of love-lies-bleeding,
a splintering of image, in mystery enshrouded,
liquesced on distant shores beclouded;
and all forgetting seemed a vaporizing,
slow thaw of snows dissolving, mesmerizing.
The first to go forgotful were
your hands,
and then your lips in mind’s eye shunned begetting,
your eyes, at first steadfastly unforgotten,
went the way of every unforgetting;
your name is all that’s left now
to whisper on my lips . . .
No more we’ll roam familiar leas
and pathways,
our birch grove dear is brooding now, gone quiet,
the wind has blown a farewell trumpet call
that rustles through sad oak leaves in disquiet.
The hayricks seem to reek of something bitter,
there where my steps are sounding fainter ever,
a droplet down my cheek so gently flows . . .
O, slowly melting, thawing of the snows!
somehow I couldn’t get forgot begotten.
Your visage moved away in slow receding,
a blurred and fading bloom of love-lies-bleeding,
a splintering of image, in mystery enshrouded,
liquesced on distant shores beclouded;
and all forgetting seemed a vaporizing,
slow thaw of snows dissolving, mesmerizing.
and then your lips in mind’s eye shunned begetting,
your eyes, at first steadfastly unforgotten,
went the way of every unforgetting;
your name is all that’s left now
to whisper on my lips . . .
our birch grove dear is brooding now, gone quiet,
the wind has blown a farewell trumpet call
that rustles through sad oak leaves in disquiet.
The hayricks seem to reek of something bitter,
there where my steps are sounding fainter ever,
a droplet down my cheek so gently flows . . .
O, slowly melting, thawing of the snows!

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