Vladimir Mayakovsky - Sergeju Jeseninu (Сергею Есенину) dalszöveg fordítás angol nyelvre

Sergueï Essenine

Versions: #2
You are gone,
As they say,
To another world.
Void…
You are flying,
Among exploding stars.
No more deposit
Nor beer.
To be sober.
No, Essenine,
It’s not
Mockery
In my throat
Is a bowl of sorrow-
Not a giggle.
I see-
Trailing with a slashed wrist,
Of your own
Bones
You are rocking the bag.
-Enough!
Stop it!
Have you lost your mind?
So,
On your cheeks
Must be spilled
The mortal chalk?
Yours
At such things
They were skillful,
As to another one
No other one
It was impossible.
Why?
What for?
I am split by perplexity.
Critics mutter
-It comes from alcohol
This…
And that…
But first,
Not enough ties,
And last
A lot of beer and wine-
To say,
You would have exchange
Bohemia
For the class,
Entangled by the class,
You would have stop fighting.
But, the class itself
When thirsty
Is it not drinking kvass?
So far-the class
To have drunk is not dumb.
To say,
To you had been added
Someone of “Na Pastou”-
Would have put
To the content
Far more value.
You would have
Per day
Written
A hundred lines
Painfully
And slowly,
Like Dorodine.
As to me,
If is realized
Such a frenzy,
You would have to yourself
Earlier slashed your wrist.
Far better
Of vodka dying,
Than of boredom.
Don’t explain
To ourselves
The source of losses
Neither the hanging loop,
Nor the little knife.
May be,
Would have been
Some ink at the “England”,
Your veins
To cut
Would have been no reason.
Imitators rejoiced
Encore!
To himself
Not least a platoon
Has done justice.
So why
To increase
The number of suicides?
Better
Pushing up
The production of ink!
For ever
From now on
The tongue
Is sticking to the teeth.
Is heavy
And inopportune
To cultivate mysteries.
People,
Creator of language,
Has lost
A loud
Debauchee apprentice.
And are brought
Rudely tied up lines,
Out of previous
Funerals
Nearly without change.
On a hill
Dumb rhymes
With a stick to plant-
Should we
A poet
Respect in such a way?
At you
Still no memorial,
Where are,
The sound of bronze,
Or the grain of granite?
Already
Has been piled up
Of dedications
And souvenirs the trash.
Your first name
Blown up in handkerchiefs,
Your verb
Spluttered by Sobinov
Who expires
Under a puny birch-
“No more a word
O my fri- iend,
No more si-igh”.
Ah,
Having spoken in another way
To this
Leonide Lohengrid-whatever!
We should here burst
Into a loud scandal:
-I don’t bear
To chew verses
Nor to offend them!-
Should be stunt
Those people
By blowing three fingers whistle
To grand-mother
And god spirit should go mother!
For destroying
Untalented dirtiness
Inflating
With darkness
The sails of jackets,
For
In all directions
Exploded Kogan,
Those he meets
Mutilating
With moustaches’ spikes.
Rubbish
Right now
Has slowly faded.
Has done a lot
To only arrived at it.
We must
The life
First to rebuild,
In doing so-
We can celebrate.
That time-
Is uneasy to the pen,
But tell
You
Lame and cripple,
Where
When,
Who, to be great, chose
A lane,
That would be crowded
And minor?
Word-
Is marshal
To human forces.
March!
That age be
From behind
With cannonballs spread out.
Of old days
By the wind
Be blown away
A sole
Lock.
 
To be happy
Planet Earth
Is unfit.
We have to
Strip
Joy
Out of days to come.
In this life
To die
Is no difficulty.
Building future life
Far more difficult.
© Bénédicte Schribaux registered
 


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