Искусствоед
Jorge Luis Borges
Rain
Evening, a sudden clearing of the mist,
For now a fine, soft rain is freshening.
It falls and it did fall. Rain is a thing
That no doubt always happens in the past.
Hearing it fall, the senses will be led
Back to a blessèd time that first disclosed
To the child a flower that was called the rose
And an extraordinary color, red.
These drops that blind our panes to the world outside
Will brighten the black grapes on a certain trellis
Out in the far, lost suburbs of the town
Where a courtyard was. The rain coming down
Brings back the voice, the longed-for voice,
Of my father, who has come home, who has not died.
transl. by D. Barnes and R. Mezey
Rain
Evening, a sudden clearing of the mist,
For now a fine, soft rain is freshening.
It falls and it did fall. Rain is a thing
That no doubt always happens in the past.
Hearing it fall, the senses will be led
Back to a blessèd time that first disclosed
To the child a flower that was called the rose
And an extraordinary color, red.
These drops that blind our panes to the world outside
Will brighten the black grapes on a certain trellis
Out in the far, lost suburbs of the town
Where a courtyard was. The rain coming down
Brings back the voice, the longed-for voice,
Of my father, who has come home, who has not died.
transl. by D. Barnes and R. Mezey