I thought, Peter, we had no secrets,
So why do you write your letters in secret, like a criminal,
To where everything happened and nothing can be undone,
And where no door will be opened by any of your keys.
From where frightened children fled, forgetting their anthills
Leaving the old in window frames, as if in portraits.
The land of forgotten parents. There's no one there, dear.
Everyone's in Neverland - ask anyone you meet.
This Neverland, Peter, is like life in Plaza:
If you want - stuff your belly, if you want - stretch your legs,
If you want - run naked, if you want - climb into a noose.
Even if you're alone here, Peter, you're one of many.
Oh, our Neverland, Neverland, a cheerful cabaret...
Everyone wears feathered hats like Apaches on your block.
And you keep asking: "Mom, Mom, well, what's it like in your yard?"
Well, what's it like there? Fog and dog cold
Well, what's it like there. Trains rumble in the cast-iron field.
And the trees shiver to shake off nests, and leaves, and ice.
Evening falls in Pliaskata like a pancake. Orsha watches when
The lamplighter in Brest lights another lamp for her.
Autumn is conceived there so that in the evening you go out on the roof
And watch everything groan and sink in this red ocean.
How tired children laugh. How leaves burn in the gardens
How everything goes without suffering and without repentance.
And you know, they still sweep the garbage on ancestral days,
In these smoky gardens. And, listen, it's like a prayer:
May the roads lead to Rome. And the paths - there,
Where they light candles and someone is waiting for someone.
I will rewrite, Peter, all your letters to your mother.
As if every day is a confession, and all life is an essay.
That you are, as it were, with them, and you grow old with us.
That you were well.
And it's a little easier now.
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Comments
Ужо адгаласілі, ўсё адгалошана да нас. Папярэднія пакаленні адплакалі і сваё, і нашае.
Ад папярэднікаў на нас ўжо бракуе шчырых слёз.
Вось да прыкладу Максім Танк:
На шумнай цыркавой арэне
Амаль забыўся мядзведзь палярны
Пра ззяне айсбергаў і марэнаў,
Пра акіяна кліч уладарны.
Але марожаным неасцярожна
Пачаставаў нехта небараку.
Успомніў тады ён свой край марозны
І як па матцы малы заплакаў.
Цытаваць ня буду, але раю ўдумліва прачытаць. Замест таго ксб аплакваць сябе "палю я рэшту дзён мізэрных".
Дык цяпер ці маем права галасіць?