Партилан420
2008-04-03_07:34
Попаднах вчера в нета на погадка- http://www.dnevnik.bg/show/?storyid=465523®ime=1 разправят се човечета най-разни дали или доколко струва си да се превежда на английски наш Вапцаров... по повод -некаф превод нескопосан на всичките му песни... колко жалко Е! Ботев-на руски- туй зву4и ужасно- и надали руснак може да схване какво е 4увстрото от "4ерната робия" Ботев превел го бих на баски ил' на тибетски, ала ги не зная Ала Вапцаров на английския си пасва със своя стил тъй "прост" (к)ре4итативен, "картечен" и "ръбат"далеч не само, а пасва си с това, 4е Има МНОГО англоезични, дето биха схванали, разбрали го във този Свят глобален Защото той е писал не за "българи" и не за "комунисти" или "роби" Защото , знайте, писал е Никола за всичките дето Сме още ХОРА! Затуй предлагам(може би нескромно) да вземем да го преведем "народно" "алтернативно" на превОда "официален" и тъй- започвам: Песен/ Song In the forest- ambush, foe. In the forest-darkness, shooting. He is wounded, down below, through the dull pain thoughts comes smoothly: "Clear, straight shot. I am dead. He just marked me in the chest, then he got loose in the forest like a sleuth-hound, without rest.. My old one will mourn so tender, my beloved one will forget she will do, just like the rest, but the comrades will remember... For my youth I won't lament, really good - the way I'm dying. I just wanted to be spent somewhere else, on barricade.. with a song, but so bad luck- he just marked me with sharpshooting Oh, if there was just a brook... but this hollow is out of water. Well, I feel a bit relief maybe my time's not yet over? somewhere near sounds the stream and the watter , watter pouring... Somewhere else - machine-gun firing... songs...then something hit me badly. Give me water! Just a sip! Falling... comrades, hold the lines!..." In the forest- ambushed foe. In the forest-darkness, shooting. He is cold now, down below. Neither senses, nor just thought. Спомен/ Recall I had a good friend, He was wonderful fellow , But...so badly and often he was starting Тhat coughing... He worked as a "stoker-guy" Wearing coal in huge pannier, than the ash throwing out in every twelve hours every given night... I remember the Eyes of this "coal-fire-ash" guy. I remember the Dry in these Eyes, soaking thirstily inside every One Ray of shivering Light, which was coming by Chance through the black, even though through the soot, Rays was entering rarely our cage so well known. How promptly, in time, they was giving the rise of the feverish thirst in the springtime, when the leafs was whispering somewhere Out in the yard somewhere Out in the Open, when a bird flight was soaring. I was sensing the way of this countersinks praying how they suffer in pain, how they suffer distressingly... They wanted so little, a bit mercy on- "'Till the springtime, next springtime at least " to be spared... She-The Spring- came in time, splendid, nice, full of Sun, warm like breath, fresh like whiff, with the fragrance of roses. Far off, Distant aroma of the Violet wild was drifting an wandering the clear, blue sky. But inside there was dark heavy, weight, overloaded the prose laying down... So on... Since the Life muddled down here, inside the engine was functioning bad way. It started suspiciously snoring and... stopped I do not know WHY, but maybe because the other guy... died. Or maybe the cause of this break-down was other. May be in it's hunger the engine was tarring a hand in the right to throw in it's bottomless fiery inferno the coal-seam in time... Yes, maybe. I don't know. But this consistent feeling for me was alike- That the engine's stammering wailing was asking: "Oh, where , whereabouts is the other lad now?" The other- He- died An so on- outside already is springtime. Somewhere afield the birds shoot the sky, so far away...He will see them no more Not anymore He will. Oh, man, what a friend he was... What wonderful lad!.. But so badly and often he started that coughing. Just another one stoker guy wearing coal for the fire, then the ash throwing out in every 12 hours Every Given Night. А бе такъв другар... Добър другар!... Но кашляше лошо. Един огняр. Пренасяше с коша кюмюр, изхвърляше сгур дванадесет часа на нощ.