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Категория: Преводи на английски език

От книгата „Ти и котките следобед. 26 стихотворения от любов“

The center of your hair holds the sun.
The center of your hair holds July.
July is getting more and more July
because you parted your hair
and the path rises from your highest vertebra
and sinks into the summer.

And anyway, your hair is black.

You smell of open window
as you always come from somewhere.
And that lack of concrete form
the difficult aromas.

The window is a dress, of course
which I forget to close.
A spearmint snail grows in our garden
and watches up, his gaze up on your hair.

I will forever leave my working place
To wait for you
when you leave work for home .
And I’ll remain to wait around the corner
for hours in the shadows of impatience.

I love you more than all those old passed days
when our names were equal to none.
Repair my unbearable logic
with presence
from another amplitudes.
And I have left behind all of my poems
and all of my occupations and my verses
Please, come home early
so we can put together
some music for the fish in our garden.

Do not be scared
we are writing memoirs
when we are drawing on the waterfall.
I’ll come to meet you very close to six
and tell you
that we have to go to somewhere.
Your eyes will regain
their clear taste of amber
only when I taste
the views in them
and confirm to you
I sunk into the deep.

I’ve starved without landscapes all my life.
And as I’m getting old toward the evening,
I want you to watch me
in this afternoon
and think that you are
everything around.

When you met me for the first time, you told me:
“You got home.”
When I met you for the first time, I told you:
“Only with you I’m somewhere.”

And I forgot to ask you
which street we dwell in at
this poem…

A rumour goes
that you got eleven of my ten books.
Another rumour goes
that when I did not write a single word,
you spoke with a clam forgotten on the tree
and bid her, for the sake of Lord, not to fly.
If this is true,
then I’m this very genre,
defined as an elegy, which sprouted in the forest.
I have the right
to give away just ten briars
and to confess to you – the highest holds your wind.

I do not calculate a thing … Even this plus
makes me nervous and worried with impossibility.
A rumour goes that you know all my words by heart,
even this slow pace of my pulse to prose.

If it’s not so, then who has read
the grammar book with torn plants?
And who has leaned over my shoulder, –
like the last poem of the world?

And then a rumour goes
that it is smoke,
illusion in unconquered verses.
Do not count to ten …
Let us sit down –
like visitors
in public library.

As I’m aware love ‘s a summary
of soggy snow,
I cannot utter anything exceeding
half a snowflake.

When we walk, your hand under mine,
I see many adjectives.
But none of them is more adjacent
to you than me.

When we walk, your hand under mine,
I write by heart of what you think.
I have remembered just one single sentence:
“I ask for nothing more. “

When we walk, your hand under mine,
I pass under trees and meanings.
And it is never too far for us
to tell you all about it all.

When I walk around with you,
each time I forget a poem.
I forget my suitcase
full of clouds,
the cherry orchard
and the rivers.
I forget the sunflowers-
they’ve always reminded me
of ants in a basket.
Or of many ants
in yellow basket.

I will confess to you a marvelous thing –
when I walk with you
I forget the titles of the books
I’ve read.
I forget about my grammar
with its cultivated
and horrible order.
I even forget that
to write your name
I need more letters
than exist in alphabet

And that’s why it is most natural thing
not to move…
And not to walk
perfectly to nowhere
apart to the end
of the flicks in the room
which jump over one another
like dices.

I do not remember names…
That’s why your name is always one and the same.
Don’t get mad at me – I do not remember names.
But I know your name is written in capitals.

No matter how fast I strive to pronounce it,
it stands at the end of my life paragraph
and moves to nowhere.

Превод: Ангелина Александрова