Искусствоед
Tu Fu
Written on the Wall at Chang's Hermitage
It is Spring in the mountains.
I come alone seeking you.
The sound of chopping wood echoes
Between the silent peaks.
The stream are still icy.
There is snow on the trail.
At sunset I reach your grove
In the stony mountain pass.
You want nothing, although at night
You can see aura of gold
And silver ore all around you.
You have learned o be gentle
As the mountain deer you have tamed.
The way back forgotten, hidden
Away, I become like you,
An empty boat, floating, adrift.
(from "One Hundred Poems from the Chinese)
transl. by Kenneth Rexroth
Written on the Wall at Chang's Hermitage
It is Spring in the mountains.
I come alone seeking you.
The sound of chopping wood echoes
Between the silent peaks.
The stream are still icy.
There is snow on the trail.
At sunset I reach your grove
In the stony mountain pass.
You want nothing, although at night
You can see aura of gold
And silver ore all around you.
You have learned o be gentle
As the mountain deer you have tamed.
The way back forgotten, hidden
Away, I become like you,
An empty boat, floating, adrift.
(from "One Hundred Poems from the Chinese)
transl. by Kenneth Rexroth