Treasure Island

Yuri Starostin


And I love a raspberry sunrise Rasul Gamzatov

* * *
And I love a raspberry sunrise,
And I love a prayer sun decline,
And I love a honey primrose,
And I love a crimson leaf fall.

And I love not at the houses, but at a liberty,
In an open country, on an hoped grasses,
To dream on and to lie on, while
The month to the head will be inclined.

Without a zyrna I can and without the chungur
To enjoy a music I can,
Otherwise so frequently to somewhat
To come to me on the stream coast.

I without a roof over the head would manage even,
It is not necessary anything to me in the life.
Only would be the mountains, their rocks and ranges
Were near my heart.

Still, probably, one time and again them
I will bypass, climbing up on the ridges.
How many here are the undimmed paints,
How many is the protogenic cleanliness.

As a trout, the spring is on the hillside
In the crimson specks at the morning.
To wash - in the warm palms
The silver ice is cool I take.

And I love the noise at the bottom of the clefts,
The wild rams which have thrown back the horns,
Through the rock the way greens pilled up
And the thousand-years snow.

And still I idolise the trees,
Them trust of a child I value.
In the wood I enter as though to the friend,
As on a kingdom, on the wood I wander.

I see the flowers of a valley mountain.
They were at the daybreak tasted by the bumblebees.
By the heart I worship to each handful
To the expensive earths to me from a child.

On knees at the river curved shore,
As would do the pilgrim, I become.
And though to the sky I stretch the hands,
I pray to the beloved earth.

Rasul Gamzatov.
While the Earth spins.
Makhachkala, 'Daguchpedgiz' 1976.
Rasul Gamzatov. The Final price.
Moscow: the Contemporary,1979.* * *
И люблю малиновый рассвет я,
И люблю молитвенный закат,
И люблю медовый первоцвет я,
И люблю багровый листопад.

И люблю не дома, а на воле,
В чистом поле, на хмельной траве,
Задремать и пролежать, доколе
Не склонится месяц к голове.

Без зурны могу и без чунгура
Наслаждаться музыкою я,
Иначе так часто ни к чему бы
Приходить мне на берег ручья.

Я без крова обошелся б даже,
Мне не надо в жизни ничего.
Только б горы, скалы их и кряжи
Были возле сердца моего.

Я еще, наверное, не раз их
Обойду, взбираясь на хребты.
Сколько здесь непотускневших красок,
Сколько первозданной чистоты.

Как форель, родник на горном склоне
В крапинках багряных поутру.
Чтоб умыться - в теплые ладони
Серебро студеное беру.

И люблю я шум на дне расселин,
Туров, запрокинувших рога,
Сквозь скалу пробившуюся зелень
И тысячелетние снега.

И еще боготворю деревья,
Их доверьем детским дорожу.
В лес вхожу как будто к другу в дверь я,
Как по царству, по лесу брожу.

Вижу я цветы долины горской.
Их чуть свет пригубили шмели.
Сердцем поклоняюсь каждой горстке
Дорогой мне сызмальства земли.

На колени у речной излуки,
Будто бы паломник, становлюсь.
И хоть к небу простираю руки,
Я земле возлюбленной молюсь.

Расул Гамзатов.
Покуда вертится Земля.
Махачкала, 'Дагучпедгиз' 1976.
»к спис

Submitted: Friday, April 05, 2013
Edited: Thursday, October 10, 2013

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