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| Goya, Capricho #43 |
Воспоминание
А.С. Пушкин (Mосква 1799 - Санкт-Петербург, 1837)
Когда для смертного умолкнет шумный день,
И на немые
стогны града
Полупрозрачная наляжет ночи тень
И сон,
дневных трудов награда,
В то время для меня влачатся в тишине
Часы
томительного бденья:
В бесдействии ночном живей горят во мне
Змеи
сердечной угрызенья;
Мечты кипят, в уме подавленном тоской,
Теснится
тяжких дум избыток;
Воспоминание безмолвно предо мной
Свой длинный
развивает свиток;
И с отвращением читая жизнь мою,
Я трепещу и
проклинаю,
И горько жалуюсь, и горько слезы лью,
Но строк
печальных не смываю.
Remembrance
By A.S. Pushkin (Moscow, 1799 – Saint Petersburg, 1837)
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
When din of day for mortals softly ends
And onto the
mute city squares
The thin penumbra of the night descends
With slumber,
balm of daylong cares,
Then, in the still for me the hours wring
Exhausting
wakeful pains anew.
Searing in blank of night, the serpent's sting
Venoms my
heart with acid rue.
Black fancies seethe. An overflow of thought
Aghast,
builds in the angst-strained soul;
Remembrance wordlessly and out of naught
Unwinds its
long unholy scroll.
Then reading with disgust the writ of years
I tremble,
damn my every day,
Bawl bitter plaints, and bitterly shed tears
But wipe not
one sad line away.
(Thanks to Pat McGowan)
El insomnio no tiene objeto ni sujeto, sino algo que tiene
que ver con la conciencia que trabaja durante él. Es la angustia, la
vigilancia. La mente se concentra y se reconoce en un punto eterno. Es la leche
negra de la cabra nocturna de la que habla Rilke. El insomnio: conciencia de lo
infinito que no termina jamás. Vigilia anónima. No soy yo quien vigila la
noche; es la propia noche la que vela con los ojos abiertos.
Insomnia by Jorge Cadavid (Pamplona, 1962)
Translated by Jorge Salavert
Insomnia
has neither an object nor a subject, but rather something that has to do with the
awareness at work throughout. It is the agony, the watchfulness. Your mind
focuses, acknowledging itself at an eternal point. It is the nocturnal goat’s black
milk Rilke talked about. Insomnia: an awareness of the never-ending infinite.
Anonymous wakefulness. It is not me who watches the night; it is night itself
that stays awake, wide-eyed.
Where
will this insomnia take us tonight?
Will it
show as lithe shadow, or as shade
of
memories forgotten? As a tide
of seas
uncharted, while city lights fade?
Even
darkness does have something to hide.
Our
fears, our dread, are always custom-made;
wakefulness
unearths it all, the flight
and the
vain search, the words we left unsaid.
Even if
we had no sadness to behold,
there
would be sufficient sleepless moments
to
write, if not a book, at least an old
sonnet,
or a song, lines for a poem,
words
from pure grief, to treasure more than gold…
till
the time we’re no more, when it all ends.
