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.
