Наталья Бухтоярова

Визитная карточка | Перевод "Я - синий цвет" С. Даниловой на английский язык

I am the blue.
I am the sky. The rain.
The West, the handkerchief, the bird of Maeterlinck,
the clear spire on the dress, the wink.
I am Your expectation and Your pain.
I am the icon-painting,
I am Wilde’s grace,
the gold-stone,
the oblivion, the reflection,
the shadow striking hard upon Your face.
I am the kiss of bloodless lips,
the flexion.
I am the blues, the cyan,
and the azure,
the most autumnal of Yesenin’s rhymes.
I am the sleep
that You don’t sleep a wink. My pleasure.
I am the lidless eye
that stares at Your crimes.
I am the alcohol,
the hardest of the woe.
Yes, You can drink,
and You can be with Me.
I am in deep of silent indigo,
in deep of My electric coat
and of My dream.
I am the sea.
And I am running high,
I am the blind impressionist’s last painting.
The ice inside the glass,
the flame, the waiting,
not just the death,
not also just the life.
I am the sapphire,
the turquoise,
the calaite,
I am the copper,
and the cobalt,
and the navy,
I am the temple vein
that’s beating, hot and wavy.
Look into Me,
Look into Me,
My fate!
…
I am the bluest of all fires on the earth –
I am all vanishing inside
Your fiery touch.
I ask You,
please,
give Me again My birth –
…and I will give You –
Yours.
It’s not too much.

Переводы стихотворений С. Даниловой для сборника "Мы - их голоса"

I promise that to my cats
straining them to the hole in my chest from which blood is pouring like endless rain:
they'll never see China, tortures, collapse –
nothing but my whole love again and again,
and I couldn't care less this tortured rhyme –
it is not a kitten, miauling, fluffy, and warm.
Dear cat, take your mat, take my bed, my time,
my hand for your claws, all my life to transform,
but I can't give you my heart – the moment is not good for this.
My heart is a kitten who is torn for the Chinese flag, who is skinned.
who is burned on the oven, who falls to an awful abyss.
Even the devil mourns.
He couldn't do such thing.

***
I beg you, stitch my tattered heart right now
with a coarse thread to soothe the fire inside.
Eleven kittens, little balls of meow,
that in the Heavenly Empire died,
come to my dreams; on every fragile back
I see two wings – on each, on each of them.
And I would take them all – grey, white, red, black,
to play, to feed, to love them now and then.
My cats don't know the news but always feel
my pain – this heartache summary is precise...
I am caressing every claw of steal –
how they could dig into the slaughterers' eyes!
Shock-content bargainers, you see... No, they are not!
They are just ordinary nauseous human scum.
The Earth's core itself is miauling, soft and hot,
resembling painfully a reddish kitties' mum:
"How could you let it be, oh God, and why?
Isn't it enough to send your Son to death?"
A dream to find a home under the sky
is trembling in the street cat's gentle breath.
But that 'Hello Street Cat', that last nightmare,
became a concentration camp for kits.
The bloody paw prints lead them to nowhere,
their souls fly to the paradise for kids.
They run along the Rainbow, little ones,
towards the clouds where they are never found
by that hangman, where that pain never comes...
...The snow of May falls down onto the ground.
_{/In memory of eleven victims slain by the slaughterer peng sian from china at the Easter Eve. Soft clouds for you, babies.../}