Сочинения Иосифа Бродского. Том IV

«Birds flying high above the retreating army!
Why do you suddenly turn and head toward our enemy,
contrary to the clouds? We are not yet defeated, are we?
True, we are scattered, but we still have some energy».

«Because your numbers diminish. You are less fit to listen

to our songs. You are no more an audience.
Vultures swoop in to replace us, and Valkyries. And the eastern
wind slams the fir horizons like jagged accordions».

«Cuneiform of the beaks! Explosions that sprout a palm tree!

Your tunes will be blown out of the sky, too, by the screaming westerly.
We commit them to memory, which is a larger country.
Nobody knows the future, but there is always yesterday».

«Ye-ah! but our life span’s shorter. There is no tomb or pyre

for our kind, but chamomile, clover, chicory,
thyme. Your valedictory runs ‘Fire! fire! fire!’
We are less comprehensible. That’s why we need a victory».

1983

BELFAST TUNE

Here’s a girl from a dangerous town.
She crops her dark hair short
so that less of her has to frown
when someone gets hurt.

She folds her memories like a parachute.

Dropped, she collects the peat
and cooks her veggies at home: they shoot
here where they eat.

Ah, there’s more sky in these parts than, say,

ground. Hence her voice’s pitch,
and her stare stains your retina like a gray
bulb when you switch

hemispheres, and her knee length quilt

skirt’s cut to catch the squall.
I dream of her either loved or killed
because the town’s too small.

1986

«SLAVE, COME TO MY SERVICE!» [15]

I

«Slave, come to my service!» «Yes, my master. Yes?»
«Quick, fetch my chariot, hitch up the horses: I’ll drive to the palace!»
«Drive to the palace, my master. Drive to the palace.
The King will be pleased to see you, he will be benevolent to you».
«No, slave. I won’t go to the palace!»
«Don’t, my master. Don’t go to the palace.
The King will send you on a faraway expedition,
down the unknown road, through hostile mountains;
day and night he will make you experience pain and hardship».

II

«Slave, come to my service!» «Yes, my master. Yes?»
«Fetch water, pour it over my hands: I am to eat my supper».
«Eat your supper, my master. Eat your supper.
Frequent meals gladden one’s heart. Man’s supper
is the supper of his god, and clean hands catch the eye of Shamash».
«No, slave. I won’t eat my supper!»
«Don’t eat your supper, master. Don’t eat your supper.
Drink and thirst, food and hunger
never leave man alone, let alone each other».

III