Тимур Кибиров - Стихи

Сколько их, куда их столько?!
Впереди – Аполлион!
Как писал об этом Толкин.
Ох, не ври, совсем не он!

Вскую языки метутся,
Призывая вражью рать…
Все! Пора мне окунуться.
Перегрелся я, видать.

White in the moon the long road lies,
The moon stands blank above;
White in the moon the long road lies
That leads me from my love.

Still hangs the hedge without a gust,
Still, still the shadows stay:
My feet upon the moonlit dust
Pursue the ceaseless way.

The world is round, so travellers tell,
And straight though reach the track,
Trudge on, trudge on, 'twill all be well,
The way will guide one back.

But ere the circle homeward hies
Far, far must it remove:
White in the moon the long road lies
That leads me from my love.

Блестит дорога под луной,
И не дрожат листы.
Блестит дорога под луной.
Любовь моя, прости!

Светло и чудно в небесах,
В сиянии земля.
Со старой песней на устах
Один шагаю я.

В сияньи голубом земля
Готовится ко сну.
Ну что ж, немного погодя
Я тоже отдохну.

Найду свободу и покой
И сном забудусь я…
Блестит дорога под луной.
Прости, любовь моя.

As through the wild green hills of Wyre
The train ran, changing sky and shire,
And far behind, a fading crest,
Low in the forsaken west
Sank the high-reared head of Clee,
My hand lay empty on my knee.
Aching on my knee it lay:
That morning half a shire away
So many an honest fellow's fist
Had well nigh wrung it from the wrist.
Hand, said I, since now we part
From fields and men we know by heart,
For strangers' faces, strangers' lands, —
Hand, you have held true fellows' hands.
Be clean then; rot before you do
A thing they'd not believe of you.
You and I must keep from shame
In London streets the Shropshire name;
On banks of Thames they must not say
Severn breeds worse men than they;
And friends abroad must bear in mind
Friends at home they leave behind.
Oh, I shall be stiff and cold
When I forget you, hearts of gold;
The land where I shall mind you not
Is the land where all's forgot.
And if my foot returns no more
To Teme nor Corve nor Severn shore,
Luck, my lads, be with you still
By falling stream and standing hill,
By chiming tower and whispering tree,
Men that made a man of me.
About your work in town and farm
Still you'll keep my head from harm,
Still you'll help me, hands that gave
A grasp to friend me to the grave.

Наступает минута прощания.
Покидая отеческий край,
Весь в слезах я шепчу: «До свидания!»,
Про себя повторяя: «Прощай!»

На чужбину меня провожая,
Провожая меня в целый мир,
Собралася толпа небольшая
Тех, кого я тогда зафрендил.

Элизиум, прощай,
Меня не забывай,
Прощай, АСП!
Прости-прощай! Прости-прощай!

Летят-летят года,
Но песня со мною всегда!
И так прекрасно
В лазури ясной
Горит-горит одна звезда!
В лазури ясной,
Многотиражной
Горит-горит одна звезда!

Отечество, прощай,
Меня воспоминай,
Прощай, ГРД!
Прости-прощай! Прости-прощай!

Никогда не предам я злословию,
Никогда, ни за что не предам,
Присягнувши такому сословию,
Присягнувши таким вот френдам!
И —
Рам-пам-пам-пам,
Рам-па-па-ру-рам!

The winds out of the west land blow,
My friends have breathed them there;
Warm with the blood of lads I know
Comes east the sighing air.

It fanned their temples, filled their lungs,
Scattered their forelocks free;
My friends made words of it with tongues
That talk no more to me.

Their voices, dying as they fly,
Thick on the wind are sown;
The names of men blow soundless by,
My fellows' and my own.

Oh lads, at home I heard you plain,
But here your speech is still,
And down the sighing wind in vain
You hollo from the hill.

The wind and I, we both were there,
But neither long abode;
Now through the friendless world we fare
And sigh upon the road.

The winds out of the west land blow,
My girl has breathed them there;
Warm with the blood of girl I know,
Comes east the sighing air.

It fanned her temples, filled her lungs,
Scattered her forelock free;
My girl made words of it with tongue
That talks no more to me.

Her sweet voice, dying as it flies,
Thick on the wind is sown;
The name of man blows soundless by,
My rival's, not my own.

Oh yesterday I heard you plain,
But now your speech is still,
And down the sighing wind in vain
I hollo from the hill.

The wind and I, we both were there,
But neither long abode;
Now through the friendless world we fare
And sigh upon the road.

'Tis time, I think, by Wenlock town
The golden broom should blow;
The hawthorn sprinkled up and down
Should charge the land with snow.

Spring will not wait the loiterer's time
Who keeps so long away;
So others wear the broom and climb
The hedgerows heaped with may.

Oh tarnish late on Wenlock Edge,
Gold that I never see;
Lie long, high snowdrifts in the hedge
That will not shower on me.

… Осенней улицей пройдя,
Свернем в осенний лес.
Как странно столько лет спустя
Мне оказаться здесь.

Вот тут она шепнула: «Да!»,
Вон там сказала: «Нет!»,
А здесь вот я стоял тогда
И нес блаженный бред…