At the edge
Elena Zaslavskaya. Translation by Max Shapiro.
Which dreams? Which dreams do come to you, my town,
When slowly and surely you’re sliding down
Into wide open chasms of the war?
And we are doomed to crowd here at the door
Of worldly bounds, where the hell is holding ground.
Perhaps, we don’t have much to call a loss.
This makes us careless, leaves nothing to demand.
The mind of eternity we may not understand.
Yet, meet it daily… walking our porch across.
Are we the guardians of this murky place,
The sentries left here frozen to prevent
The further growth of the inferno’s vent?
Or nomads running an unceasing race?
The wanderers, the warriors, sons of plains,
Evangelists of vast expanse and windy hair.
Being always on the go is all that still remains
To stay on path towards our true selves.
And that is why we find rest nowhere.
——————————————
У КРАЯ
Какие сны? Какие снятся сны
Тебе, мой город, медленно и верно
Сползающий в распахнутую бездну войны?
Здесь на границе мира и инферно
Мы все обречены.
А может быть нам нечего терять
И потому мы искренне беспечны?
Здесь сразу за крылечком — вечность,
Но точки зрения ее нам не понять.
А может быть, мы стражи этих мест?
И чтобы не росла воронка ада
Как часовые мы застыли здесь?
А может быть, мы вечные номады?
Скитальцы, воины, мы сыновья степей,
Апологеты ветра и раздолья.
Всегда в пути. И этот путь к себе.
И потому нигде нам нет покоя.
PS свой вариант правок предложил Вячеслав Киреев:
What dreams? What dreams disquiet you, my town,
When slowly but verily you’re sliding down
Into wide open chasms of the war?
And we’re doomed to crowd at the door
Of worldly bounds, where hell is holding ground.
Perhaps, there isn’t much to call a loss.
This makes us careless, leaves nothing to demand.
The mind of eternity we may never understand.
Yet, we meet it daily… just stepping outdoors.
Are we the guardians of this murky place,
The sentries left here freezing to prevent
The further growth of the inferno’s vent?
Or nomads running an unceasing race?
The wanderers, warriors, sons of plains,
Evangelists of the vast expanse and windy hair.
Being always on the go is all that still remains
When we are plodding towards our true selves.
And that is why we find rest nowhere.