В полдневный жар в долине Дагестана
С свинцом в груди лежал недвижим я;
Глубокая ещё дымилась рана,
По капле кровь точилася моя.
Лежал один я на песке долины;
Уступы скал теснилися кругом,
И солнце жгло их жёлтые вершины
И жгло меня - но спал я мёртвым сном.
И снился мне сияющий огнями
Вечерний пир в родимой стороне.
Меж юных жен, увенчанных цветами,
Шёл разговор весёлый обо мне.
Но в разговор весёлый не вступая,
Сидела там задумчиво одна,
И в грустный сон душа её младая
Бог знает чем была погружена;
И снилась ей долина Дагестана;
Знакомый труп лежал в долине той;
В его груди дымясь чернела рана,
И кровь лилась хладеющей струёй
Михаил Лермонтов, 1841
---
The Dream
In noon's heat, in a dale of Dagestan
With lead inside my breast, stirless I lay;
The deep wound still smoked on; my blood
Kept trickling drop by drop away.
On the dale's sand alone I lay. The cliffs
Crowded around in ledges steep,
And the sun scorched their tawny tops
And scorched me - but I slept death's sleep.
And in a dream I saw an evening feast
That in my native land with bright lights shone;
Among young women crowned with flowers,
A merry talk concerning me went on.
But in the merry talk not joining,
One of them sat there lost in thought,
And in a melancholy dream
Her young soul was immersed - God knows by what.
And of a dale in Dagestan she dreamt;
In that dale lay the corpse of one she knew;
Within his breast a smoking wound showed black,
And blood ran in a stream that colder grew.
Vladimir Nabokov
---
The Dream
Noon heat, a gorge in Daghestan,
I lay still, a bullet in my chest:
The deep wound was still red-hot,
blood seeped, drop by drop.
I lay lonely on the gorge's sand,
the cliff-ledges towered around,
the sun burned their yellow heights,
and I - I slept like the dead.
And I dreamed of a midnight ball,
in my homeland, gleaming light,
young girls wreathed in flowers
talking about me, with delight.
But one sat there, deep in thought,
not part of the joyful theme,
and her young soul, God knows,
was plunged in the saddest dream.
Her dream, a gorge in Daghestan...
in that gorge a friend lay dead,
a black wound in his chest:
of dark blood a cooling stream...
A.S. Kline, between 2002 and 2011
@
http://www.poetryintranslation.com/PITBR/Russian/ClearVoices.htm#_Toc283997673
---
At hot south noon, in a valley of Daghestan
With bullet in his heart was laying dead
An officer. Silence around was stunned,
And blood still streamed from th' wound, warm and red.
Some bare steep rocks were crowding around,
And severe sun was shining above him,
Burning away completely choppy ground
And his own face, but he had deadly dream.
And he was dreaming vividly about
A'familiar mansion and luxurious ball,
Where charming ladies gaily talked aloud
About him, in the'spacious dancing hall.
Yet, one of them, in the'lively conversation
Did not take part, and thoughtful stayed aloof,
As if into despair or some frustration
Her tender soul, by a'strange dream, was moved.
She dreamt about a valley in Daghestan,
On choppy ground her friend was laying dead,
With closed eyes, she stood completely stunned,
And saw his blood, still streaming, warm and red.
VG, 2 мая 2013