Requiem II: Dedication

 


 
DEDICATION 
 
Mountains bow down to this grief,
Mighty rivers cease to flow,
But the prison gates hold firm,
And behind them are the "prisoners' burrows"
And mortal woe.
For someone a fresh breeze blows,
For someone the sunset luxuriates —
We wouldn’t know, we are those who everywhere
Hear only the rasp of the hateful key
And the soldiers' heavy tread.
We rose as if for an early service,
Trudged through the savaged capital
And met there, more lifeless than the dead;
The sun is lower and the Neva mistier,
But hope keeps singing from afar.
The verdict ... And her tears gush forth,
Already she is cut off from the rest,
As if they painfully wrenched life from her heart,
As if they brutally knocked her flat,
But she goes on ... Staggering ... Alone ...
Where now are my chance friends
Of those two diabolical years?
What do they imagine is in Siberia's storms,
What appears to them dimly in the circle of the moon?
I am sending my farewell greeting to them.
March 1940
“Dedication”
 
Line 4, "prisoners' burrows" – from Pushkin’s poem, “Message to Siberia”
[Trans. Judith]
 
****
 
DEDICATION 
 
Faced with this grief, mountains sink down,
The great river has to languish,
But the hasps of the prison are made of iron,
And behind them the "concentration den"
And deadly anguish.
Cool winds are stroking someone’s hair,
And the sun is shining on someone's head—
We don’t know, we're the same everywhere,
The gnashing of keys is all we hear
And the soldiers' booted tread.
We get up as if there were priests to assist,
We cross the rebrutalized city squares,
More breathless than the dead, we come to the tryst,
The sun is lower and the Neva’s all mist,
And far off, the song of hoping flares.
Sentence. . . And at once the tears will start,
How different from the others one's already grown,
It's as if they took the life out of the heart,
Like being thrown backwards on a jolting cart,
. . . She's coming. . . Staggering. . . Alone. . .
Where now are all the chance-met people,
Friends during those two years in hell?
Of which Siberian storms are they full?
What phantoms do they see in the lunar circle?
It's to them I am sending this farewell.
1940
Trans. Lyn Coffin
 
****
 
DEDICATION 
 
 
The mountains bow before this anguish,
The great river does not flow.
In mortal sadness the convicts languish.
The bolts stay frozen. There's someone who
Still feels the sunset's glow,
Someone who can still distinguish
Day from night, for whom the fresh
Wind blows. But we don't know it, we're obsessive,
We only hear the tramp of boots, abrasive
Keys scraping against our flesh.
Rising as though for early mass,
Through the capital of beasts we'd thread.
Met, more breathless than the dead,
Mistier Neva, lower sun. Ahead,
Hope was still singing, endlessly evasive.
The sentence! and now at last tears flood.
She'd thought the months before were loneliness!
She's thrown down like a rock.
The heart gives up its blood.
Yet goes ... swaying... she can still walk.
My friends of those two years I stood
In hell — oh all my chance friends lost
Beyond the circle of the moon, I cry
Into the blizzards of the permafrost:
Goodbye. Goodbye.
Trans. D.M. Thomas
 
 DÉVOUEMENT  
 
Les montagnes s'inclinent devant cette angoisse,  
Le grand fleuve ne coule pas.  
Dans une tristesse mortelle, les forçats languissent.  
Les boulons restent gelés.  
Il y a quelqu'un qui  
Ressent toujours la lueur du coucher du soleil,  
Quelqu'un qui peut encore distinguer Le jour de la nuit, pour qui la fraîcheur Vent souffle. Mais nous ne le savons pas, nous sommes obsédés, On n'entend que le claquement des bottes, abrasif  
Des clés raclant notre chair.  
Se levant comme pour la messe matinale,  
À travers la capitale des bêtes, nous nous faufilerions.  
Rencontré, plus essoufflé que les morts,  
Mistier Neva, soleil bas. En avant,  
L'espoir chantait toujours, infiniment évasif. La phrase! et maintenant enfin les larmes coulent.  
Elle avait pensé que les mois précédents étaient de la solitude ! Elle est renversée comme un rocher.  
Le cœur donne son sang.  
Pourtant va... se balançant... elle peut encore marcher.  
Mes amis de ces deux années où je me suis tenu En enfer - oh tous mes amis chanceux ont perdu 
 Au-delà du cercle de la lune, je pleure  
Dans les blizzards du pergélisol : Au revoir. Au revoir.
 
 
 
 
DEDICATION

The high crags decline before this woe,
The great river does not flow ahead,
But they’re strong – the locks of a jail, stone,
And behind them – the cells, dark and low,
And the deadly pine is spread.
For some one, somewhere, a fresh wind blows,
For some one, somewhere, wakes up a dawn –
We don’t know, we’re the same here always,
We just hear the key’s squalls, morose,
And the sentry’s heavy step alone;
Got up early, as for Mass by Easter,
Walked the empty capital along
To create the half-dead peoples’ throng.
The sun downed, the Neva got mister,
But our hope sang afar its song.
There’s a sentence… In a trice tears flow…
Now separated, cut from us,
As if they’d pulled out her heart and thrown
Or pushed down her on a street stone –
But she goes… Reels…  Alone at once.
Where are now friends unwilling those,
Those friends of my two years, brute?
What they see in the Siberian snows,
In a circle of the moon, exposed?
To them I send my farewell salute.
 https://www.poetryloverspage.com/poets/akhmatova/requiem.html
 
 

Cống hiến

Núi cúi đầu trước nỗi đau này,

Những dòng sông hùng vĩ ngừng chảy, Nhưng cửa ngục vững chắc,

Và đằng sau họ là "hang ổ của tù nhân" Và tai họa chết người.

Đối với ai đó một làn gió mới thổi,

Đối với ai đó hoàng hôn xa hoa — 

Chúng tôi sẽ không biết, chúng tôi là những người ở khắp mọi nơi.

Chỉ nghe thấy tiếng chìa khóa đáng ghét 

Và bước đi nặng nề của những người lính. 

Chúng tôi thức giấc như thể cho một buỗi lễ sớm,

Lê bước qua thủ đô man rợ

Và gặp nhau ở đó, vô hồn hơn cả người chết;

Mặt trời thấp hơn và sương mù Neva, 

Nhưng hy vọng cứ hát từ xa.

Bản án ... Và nước mắt cô trào ra, 

Cô ấy đã bị cắt đứt khỏi phần còn lại, 

Như thể họ đau đớn xé nát cuộc sống từ trái tim cô ấy, Như thể họ đánh gục cô ấy một cách tàn nhẫn, 

Nhưng cô ấy cứ... Lảo đảo... Một mình... 

 

Những người bạn may mắn của tôi

Của hai năm quỷ quyệt đó

Bây giờ ở đâu?

 

Họ tưởng tượng điều gì trong những cơn bão ở Siberia,

Điều gì xuất hiện lờ mờ với họ trong vòng tròn của mặt trăng?

Tôi đang gửi lời chào tạm biệt của tôi đến họ.

Tháng 3 năm 1940 

 

 

“Cống hiến”

 

Dòng 4, "hang của tù nhân" - từ bài thơ của Pushkin, "Thông điệp gửi Siberia" 

Bản tiếng Việt từ bản tiếng Anh của Judith

 

 

 

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