B.Akhmadulina, In that grief at morning... - translation (rus.)
By Bella Akhmadulina
In that grief at morning, to which man is sticked,
Looking around at monday, in the state after sleep,
At the same place, where he stood in the previous day...
He thoughts that one grossmeister, to say,
Who has crowded the empty heaven,
Would surely notice his sleeping soul,
And, savingly, would move him ahead.
along the proper road.
But the staying aside force of dreams,
Also the star's motion and the state's wars
Were of no importance in his grieves
And in his poor torments.
Having gulped a milk from a bottle,
He thus cooperates with the thought,
Which was ailing his nape till the morning,
That's a wave of the need's call.
Then why above his rocking craddle
Ahead of his mother or his father,
With a reed-pipe and a star somebody overbent,
Somebody was and his face touched?
Fastly scratched a burn on forehead above the brow,
Smiled and left him, hiding afar -
They ran on hearing the baby's cry,
But soon respectfully went aside.
And at monday in twilights of sunrise,
Looking at his forehead in a part of glass,
He sees, that the diamond's mark
Disappeared and all had healed up.
In that great grief, with which no cope
Could be taken, at least, for century,
I was to the kindergarten roving,
Pulling after me my child.
Pink was the gloomy heaven's vault,
The incendiary of the new day, the leader
Of a blizzard, the initiator of dawn,
What is your purpose in deal with me?
And the answer was the silent light,
And this light as well as laugh,
Directed me, that I'm, being soft and young
Would stand on the glittering snow cover,
That is nearby the corner of turn
And is waiting one unspeakable prise.
Something flashed up in my forehead, for moment,
And a passer-by looked at me in surprise.
Lyudmila Purgina's Other Poems
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Comments about this poem (B.Akhmadulina, In that grief at morning... - translation (rus.) by Lyudmila Purgina )
- বাংলা ভাষায় চন্দ্রবিন্দুর প্রয়োজনীয়তা আছ.., Md. Ziaul Haque
- এইখানে একটা পেয়ারা গাছ ছিল, Md. Ziaul Haque
- Forlorn, my love, no comfort here, Robert Burns
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- The Bonie Lass of Albany, Robert Burns
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