ДЫХАНІЕ.
Дано мнѣ тѣло — что мнѣ дѣлать съ нимъ,
Такимъ единымъ и такимъ моимъ?
За радость тихую дышать и жить
Кого, скажите, мнѣ благодарить?
Я и садовникъ, я же и цвѣтокъ,
Въ темницѣ міра я не одинокъ.
На стекла вѣчности уже легло
Мое дыханіе, мое тепло.
Запечатлѣется на немъ узоръ,
Неузнаваемый съ недавнихъ поръ.
Пускай мгновенія стекаетъ муть —
Узора милаго не зачеркнуть.
1909.
О. Мандельштам. Камень. Стихи. АКМЭ, С.-Петербург, 1913.
* * *
Man gab mir einen Körper – wer
Sagt mir, wozu? Er ist nur mein, nur er.
Die stille Freude: atmen dürfen, leben.
Wem sei der Dank dafür gegeben?
Ich soll der Gärtner, soll die Blume sein.
Im Kerker Welt, da bin ich nicht allein.
Das Glas der Ewigkeit - behaucht:
Mein Atem, meine Wärme drauf.
Die Zeichnung auf dem Glas, die Schrift:
Du liest sie nicht, erkennst sie nicht.
Die Trübung, mag sie bald vergehn.
Es bleibt die zarte Zeichnung stehn.
© James Greene
* * *
What shall I do with the body I've been given,
So much at one with me, so much my own?
For the quiet happiness of breathing, being able
To be alive, tell me to whom I should be grateful?
I am gardener, flower too, and not alone
In the world's dungeon.
My warmth, my exhalation, one can already see
On the window-pane of eternity.
The pattern printed in my breathing here
Has not been seen before.
Let the moment's condensation vanish without trace:
The cherished pattern no one can efface.
© Albert C. Todd
* * *
A body was given to me — what to do with it,
So unique and so much my own?
For the quiet joy of breathing and living,
Who is it, tell me, that I must thank?
I am the gardener, I am the flower as well,
In the dungeon of the world I am not alone.
On the glass of eternity has already settled
My breathing, my warmth.
A pattern prints itself on it,
Unrecognizable of late.
Let the lees of the moment trickle down—
The lovely pattern must not be wiped away.
1909 (transl. publ. 1993)
© Andrey Kneller
* * *
I was given a body – what to do with it now,
One so unique and my own somehow?
For this quiet joy, to breathe and to be,
Whom should I thank, somebody tell me?
I’m the gardener, I’m the flower as well,
I’m not alone in world’s dungeon cell.
On the glass of eternity, I’ve already left
A mark of my warmth, a mark of my breath.
And on its surface, a pattern is made
Unrecognizable still of late.
Let the cloudiness of the moments cascade –
The lovely pattern will never fade.
* * *
What shall I do with this body they gave me,
so much my own, so intimate with me?
For being alive, for the joy of calm breath,
tell me, who should I bless?
I am the flower, and the gardener as well,
and am not solitary, in earth’s cell.
My living warmth, exhaled, you can see,
on the clear glass of eternity.
A pattern set down,
until now, unknown.
Breath evaporates without trace,
but form no one can deface.
© William Minor
* * *
This gift, my body--what shall I do with it?
So unique to me, so much my own.
The joy of breathing quietly, merely being alive
-- tell me, who shall I thank for that?
I am both gardener and flower. I know
in this world's prison, I am not alone.
I have pressed on eternity's pathetic glass
my own light breath, my warm glow.
The pattern is there forever, a pattern
others may decline to be shown.
Let the dross drain away; let it, daily.
What I am will not be lost.
© Charles Bernstein and Kevin Platt
* * *
I've been given a body. What should I do with it,
So singular, so my own?
For this joy, quiet, to live and breathe,
Who, tell me, am I to thank?
I am gardener, but flower too;
In the world's dungeon I am not alone.
On the windowpanes of eternity,
My breath, my warmth has already settled.
On it a pattern is pressed,
Unrecognizable of late.
Even if moment's gloom streams down—
The pattern, so dear, won't be crossed out!
© Peter Russell
* * *
I am given a body — what should I do with it —
Such as it is and only mine?
For the calm joy of breath and life
Whom, tell me whom, am I to thank?
I am the gardener and the flower:
In the world’s darkness I am not alone.
My breath, my body’s warmth
Already show on time’s eternal glass.
A pattern is impressed upon it
That lately has become obscure.
May the dullness of the moment pass away
And not black out that lovely form.
© Ilya Shambat
* * *
It's so my own and so familiar. What should
I do with this God-given flesh and blood?
For joys so quiet as to live and breathe,
Who will receive my gratitude for these?
I'm both the gardener and flower one,
In this world's dungeons I am not alone.
On the glass of the eternal one can see
The traces of my breath and of the warmth of me.
Henceforth it bears a pattern which is mine
Even to me unknown from recent times.
Let it be drained, the turmoil of the day -
The lovely pattern won't be crossed away.
* * *
I'm given a body — what to do with it?
It is so unique and so much my own.
For the quiet happiness to breathe and live,
Tell me, to whom shall I give my thanks?
I am the gardener and the flower too,
In the world's dungeon I am not alone.
My breath, my warmth lay already down
On the window glass of eternity.
The pattern will be imprinted there
Unrecognizable from recent times.
Let the instant mud be flown away —
The cherished pattern will be not erased.
1909 (transl. 2006)
* * *
I’m given a body — what to do with thee,
So much unique, so much belong to me?
For the quiet happiness to breathe and live
My gratefulness — to whom it shall I give?
I’m a gardener and I’m a flower as well,
I’m not alone in th’ earthly prison cell.
And all my breath and warmth lay already
Down on the window glass of eternity.
The pattern that will be imprinted there
From recent times you will not find elsewhere.
The mud of th’ instant let be gone to waste,
The cherished pattern will be not erased.
1909 (transl. 15 May 2015)
(Ё)
