Tuesday, December 15, 2015

My translation of Alexey Mozgovoy's poem No. 33: Philosophical Lyrics--This is what Minsk and oligarchy as anti-spirit has been killing in Russia


Let the fog take me along, and I will
Fall among the drops of grass’s dew,
Infusing steppes’ green sprouting storms
With all that is in this man’s blood.

Let the feathery grass take me along
In the maelstrom of its silver silk,
So that, light and easy, later I can be
Its pollen dust when raised by the wind.

Let the creek carry me forth along,
And I will find my way down to the quiet Don
And, in its stream and its glittering glaze,
My anxieties will vanish—evaporate.

Let the sand of Donbass take me in at last,
So that his new grain and seed I’ll become.
For I know and I can see closer to the steppe
It is fated that I shall be –

Closer to the storm of its feathery leaves.

Originally posted by Alexey Mozgovoy on June 4, 2013, well before the war

Забери меня туман,
Упаду в траву росою.
Напою степной бурьян,
Каждой капелькой, собою. 

Забери меня ковыль,
В серебристый омут шёлка.
Пусть уйду потом я в пыль,
Ветер, пыль поднимет ловко. 

Забери меня ручей,
Я к реке найду дорогу.
Сотни солнечных лучей,
Испарят мою тревогу. 

Забери меня песок,
Я песчинкой твоей стану.
Видно выпал и мне срок, 
Ближе быть, к степи,
К бурьяну...

No comments:

Post a Comment