Лидия
Чуковская
(1907-1996)
Маленькая,
немощная лира.
Вроде блюдца или скалки, что ли.
И на ней сыграть печали мира!
Голосом её кричать от боли.
Неприметный голос, неказистый,
Еле слышный, сброшенный со счёта.
Ну и что же! Был бы только чистый.
Остальное не моя забота.
1968
d
Literary
Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie
A tiny little,
feeble little, puny little lyre.
Something like a rolling pin, a saucer, candy cane.
And you play on it—imagine that!—the world’s stark anguish dire.
In its scant voice you wail and shriek the whole of all your pain.
A voice that’s
not remarkable, a voice unprepossessing,
Barely audible it be, a nocount voice,
Of no use nary, nowhere.
Well yeah, so what! As long as it’s
Still pure in tone
And ever effervescing.
The rest is none of my bloody affair.
Something like a rolling pin, a saucer, candy cane.
And you play on it—imagine that!—the world’s stark anguish dire.
In its scant voice you wail and shriek the whole of all your pain.
Barely audible it be, a nocount voice,
Of no use nary, nowhere.
Well yeah, so what! As long as it’s
Still pure in tone
And ever effervescing.
The rest is none of my bloody affair.
