Ipod Touch Screen Failure

r_m_rilke @ 2004-09-27T17:26:00

О фонтанах

(Translated by A. Karelian)

I suddenly understood the essence of the first fountains,
glass crowns the puzzle and a phantom.
They like tears to me, it's too early -
during take-off dreams in anticipation of deceptions -
I lost and then forgotten.

Uzhel I forgot that, and to random things
outstretched arms of Horní spheres?
What I breathed grandeur of the original
old park in the fire of sunset farewell
uplifting - and sound at the edge of the sad
maiden songs, dark, like spells,
shot up to the carotid crowns night
and seemed to become reality, if they
much reflection in the pond waiting for the mirror?

But when I remember at the moment,
what happened to me and fountains,
as the newly I go back to the overthrow,
where the water appeared to me to another world:
then the world branches, who look into the darkness of the well,
world voices, whose flame is barely beating,
ponds that only banks
twists in itself able to repeat the sad,
heaven had suddenly recoiled in embarrassment from
groves sunset, darkness absorbed,
and bulged out differently, and darken,
like lit up the world is not one ...

Uzhel I had forgotten that the sky vault
does not hear us in a solemn desert
and that the star is a star recognizes
only through the tears in this expanse of blue?
maybe, and here we are, in turn,
someone to serve the air. Those people
looks at us in the night and we sing their praises
. Il send it so
curses us. Il cry alone
to us crying, looking for God,
somewhere near us, and the threshold
podemlyut lamps and prayer with the words
elevate - and then on our faces,
как бы от этих ламп, на миг ложится
невыразимый отсвет божества ...

From the fountains

Suddenly I know a lot of the fountains, the incomprehensible
trees made of glass.
I could talk about how to own tears, I
, seized with very big dreams, wasted
once and then forgot.
because I forgot that heaven
rich hands to many things and in the crowd?
Did I not always greatness unparalleled
in the rise of old parks, before the soft
expectant evenings - in pale
from other girls growing chants,
the overflow from the melody
and really are and when they would
reflected in the opened ponds?

I must only think of the All
what happened at fountains, and with me, -
then I feel the burden of the low case,
saw again in what I water
And know of branches, which turned down,
of votes that were burning with low flame,
of ponds, which only the embankments
repeated moronic and moved
of evening skies, which were charred by
western forests completely estranged
differently curved, darkened and did
as if that is not the world she meant ...

I forgot, then, that Stern on Stern petrified
and closes against the neighboring globes?
that the world just like stained
seen in space? - Maybe we're up in heaven
woven of other beings,
the upturned to us in the evening. Maybe we praise
their poets. Perhaps many
pray up to us. Maybe we are the targets of foreign
curses that we never erreichen,
Nachbaren eines Gottes, den sie meinen
in unsrer Höhe, wenn sie einsam weinen,
an den sie glauben und den sie verlieren,
und dessen Bildnis, wie ein Schein aus ihren
suchenden Lampen, flüchtig und verweht
über unsere zerstreuten Gesichter geht ....

Nauseous Four Months Post Partum

r_m_rilke @ 2004-09-15T11:41:00

* * *

(Translation Evg.Borisova)

over the top of the heart. See how all fine there, you see:
here border village of words, as above,
but also subtle, yet
last hut feelings - whether he knew you?
over the top of the heart. Only a stone
hands meet. And here
something is growing: the steep cliffs -
not knowing about the growth of singing grass.
But the knower? Ah, referring to knowledge,
he is silent now over the tops of the heart.
And wander here, in the minds of the innocent,
fearless mountain beasts, and suddenly freeze,
listening. And a huge secretive bird
draws in the sky pure denial. - Но открыта для взора
здесь, сердца над вершинами.

* * *

Exposed on the cliffs of the heart. See how small there
see: the last village of words and, later,
but how tiny, one last farmhouse of feeling
. Do you recognize it?
Exposed on the cliffs of the heart. Stoneground
under the hands. And this is in bloom
to some, from an ignorant dumb crash
herb flowers, singing.
But who knows? Oh, he began to know
and is quiet now, exposed on the cliffs of the heart.
There goes well, heal consciousness,
much about, many Faces, mountain animal,
replaced and bored. And the great bird born
revolves around the peak pure denial. - But
unborn, here on the cliffs of the heart ...

Kodak M1020 Audio Out Of Sync

r_m_rilke @ 2004-09-13T19:25:00

Фрагменты потерянных дней

(Перевод Е. Витковского)

... Как птицы, forgetting the flight,
long heavy with the impotence,
which became useless wings,
and drunk of them all earthly dust
brighter than the sky presents;
they want almost like a leaf fall,
to land priniknut, -
as germs, barely
sprouted in sickness slumber
and soft and lifeless lie,
peregnivaya in the loose black earth, -
as children in the dark - like a muddy look
dead - as happy hands,
raised the glass, shake with flour
past and the distant call, -
like cries of drowning, that zamrut
under the roar of bells in the night mist, -
as a drying room in Geranium,
as streets, steeped in deception, -
as curl, drove out the emerald, -
as Solar April,
when crowding at the windows Infirmary,
sick looking at streams of light,
that in the morning dressed
all the streets that they are visible through the window;
patients seen only the brilliance of spring,
laughter of youth, chasing away the shadows,
not comprehending that the night had already
storm curtain in the sky, tears,
storm with the sea, dressed in ice
storm roars over the town,
easy on the air raising
all perishable goods of the earth,
that anger and rage outside, far away,
there, far away, a mighty fist
would have been swept away by a crowd of sick,
whose faith in the sun is devoid of doubt ...
... How many nights in the leaves of autumn,
flying on the ground cold smoke
so far that there anybody favorite
for tears will not find shelter, -
the girls naked on the steep steps, -
as drunk wine in the forest primeval, -
empty words as meaningless distemper,
which stubbornly included in the ears,
and deeper into the brain, penetrating the soul,
mastering a body of thought crumpling, -
as the elderly, cursed descendants
before his death, so that a whole generation of flour fatal
not escape, -
like a rose, vzrosshaya in the greenhouse,
under the arch, to an outlet in the glass tends
and break free from the prison,
under the powdery snow will find death, -
as the globe, under the weight of dead bodies
stopping, freeze begins, -
as a man that went to the firing squad,
in Grave roots struggles to push, -
die as poppies field
only because a sudden touch
their roots to the ancient turquoise bracelet
down in the grave - and among the flowering
death will meet for the first time
meadow ...

And often there were days are .
as if someone cast a head
my pierced steel needle ominously.
I felt the excitement of his cruel,
as if I were pouring streams
rain, which distorted things.

Fragmente aus verlorenen Tagen

.... Wie Vögel, welche sich gewöhnt ans Gehn
und immer schwerer werden, wie im Fallen:
die Erde saugt aus ihren langen Krallen
die mutige Memory of all the great things
what happened high, and it almost makes
leaves, which keep close
on the ground -
like growths that crawling up
barely growing in the ground, lifeless
in black plaice
light and soft and wet sink and dry up, -
like crazy kids - like a face
in a coffin - as happy hands that
be inconclusive, because the full goblets
to reflect things that are not near, -
as cry for help, who meet in the evening breeze
many dark large bells - such as room
flowers that dry for days,
such as streets, which are notorious - as curls,
therein precious stones have become blind, -
like morning in April
above all lots of windows of the hospital:
the sick crowd at the hem gaze of the hall
and: the grace of an early jet
makes all the streets spring and far;
they only see the bright glory, which makes the houses
young and laughing,
and do not know that even tears the whole night, a storm
the clothes from the heavens, a storm of waters
when the world still EIST,
a storm that roars through the streets now
and all the things
burden from her shoulders, takes -
that something is out there big and angry,
that goes out the violence, a fist,
would strangle each of the patients
midst of this splendor, which they believe. -
...... How long nights in faded bowers,
are already torn on all sides
and much too far to even a second,
loves you very much in it together to weep, -
like naked girls, coming over stones, as
intoxicated in a birch grove, -
as words which mean nothing definite yet
go, go in your ear,
further into the brain and secretly to the nerve guide
by all members jump jump Try -
like old men who curse their sex
and then die, so that no one could ever turn the
imposed Alas, how full
roses, artificially reared in the blue
greenhouse where the air lied, and then by the high spirits in
large arc
also scattered in the wind-blown snow -
like a world that can not circulate, can
because complain too much dead their feeling
as a slain buried man
to fight back the hands to roots -
like one of the high, slender, red
summer flowers that unredeemed
dies suddenly in the favorite wind of the meadows,
weil ihre Wurzel unten an Türkisen
im Ohrgehänge einer Toten
stößt....

Und mancher Tage Stunden waren so.
Als formte wer mein Abbild irgendwo,
um es mit Nadeln langsam zu mißhandeln.
Ich spürte jede Spitze seiner Spiele,
und war, als ob ein Regen auf mich fiele,
in welchem alle Dinge sich verwandeln.

Adapting Old Printer Cable

r_m_rilke @ 2004-09-07T16:34:00

Песня сироты

(Перевод Е.Витковского)

Я ничто и не буду ничем single day.
I am small, and all around great fuss;
continue no better.

Papa, Mama,
pity on me.

However, I am not worthy of worry:
harvest has already been removed.
's time has not come to me and will not come -
not need anywhere orphan.

I wear without changing his clothes,
long-lost color.
But, perhaps, by the will of God, rags
ever wear no.

not were replaced by strands of my hair,
is the same each strand,
and one who had once fondled them, -

they shall never be caressed.

Das Lied der Waise

Ich bin Niemand und werde auch Niemand sein.
Jetzt bin ich ja zum Sein noch zu klein;
aber auch später.

mothers and Vättern,
have pity on me.

Although it is not worth the trouble grooming:
I will cut it.
can use me no: now it is too early
and tomorrow it's too late.

I only have this one dress,
it is thin and faded, but considers it an eternity

even before God, perhaps.

l have only this little bit of hair
(always the same),
was once a love.

Now he does not love anything more.

Backyard Playset Sailboat

r_m_rilke @ 2004-09-01T15:06:00

ГОЛОСА

Девять песен и титульный Sheet

cover sheet

(Translation E. Witkowski)

happy, rich - a decent silence,
that reflect something of their fate. But
- destitute Requests attention,
he says: I am blind,
or: I, too, oslepnu soon,
or: haunts me grief,
or: when I was a child patient,
or: I have gone out of the way ...

Gore a lot, and words can not be found.

people of other interesting things.
Draw attention has a song.

These songs are always good.

However, the tastes of the people are bent:
castrates Awards are singing in the chapel.

Only the Lord hears the voice of the soul
those who pray for a better inheritance.

DIE STIMMEN

Neun Blätter mit einem Titelblatt

Titelblatt

Die Reichen und Glücklichen haben gut schweigen,
niemand will wissen was sie sind.
Aber die Dürftigen müssen sich zeigen,
müssen say I'm blind
or: I am about it being
or: for me to feel not good on earth
or: I have a sick child or
: I'm joined together ...

And perhaps, that it's not enough.

And because all else go by, as in things
to them, they have to sing,
And you can hear good singing.

course, the people are strange, they prefer to hear
castrati in boys choirs.

But God himself comes and stays long
if they bother him circumcised.