Искусствоед
Antonio Machado
Yo voy soñando caminos
читать дальше
Antonio Machado
I dream my way
I dream my way
down evening roads.
Gold hills, green pines,
and dusty oaks…
Where can the road be leading?
I sing my way along,
the road stretches away,
evening is coming on.
"Love pierced my heart
with its thorn.
One day I got it out—
now the heart s numb."
And the land all about
grows dim and still,
ingathered for a moment.
There are sounds of wind
in the river poplars.
The dusk begins to gather
and the twisting road,
still glimmering faintly,
blurs over and is gone.
My soul laments once more:
"Sharp golden thorn,
if only I could feel you
piercing my heart."
transl. by Alan S. Trueblood
(c)
Yo voy soñando caminos
читать дальше
Antonio Machado
I dream my way
I dream my way
down evening roads.
Gold hills, green pines,
and dusty oaks…
Where can the road be leading?
I sing my way along,
the road stretches away,
evening is coming on.
"Love pierced my heart
with its thorn.
One day I got it out—
now the heart s numb."
And the land all about
grows dim and still,
ingathered for a moment.
There are sounds of wind
in the river poplars.
The dusk begins to gather
and the twisting road,
still glimmering faintly,
blurs over and is gone.
My soul laments once more:
"Sharp golden thorn,
if only I could feel you
piercing my heart."
transl. by Alan S. Trueblood
(c)