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Стихи

Наступает минута прощания.Покидая отеческий край,Весь в слезах я шепчу: «До свидания!»,Про себя повторяя: «Прощай!»На чужбину меня провожая,Провожая меня в целый мир,Собралася толпа небольшаяТех, кого я тогда зафрендил.Элизиум, прощай,Меня не забывай,Прощай, АСП!Прости-прощай! Прости-прощай!Летят-летят года,Но песня со мною всегда!И так прекрасноВ лазури яснойГорит-горит одна звезда!В лазури ясной,МноготиражнойГорит-горит одна звезда!Отечество, прощай,Меня воспоминай,Прощай, ГРД!Прости-прощай! Прости-прощай!Никогда не предам я злословию,Никогда, ни за что не предам,Присягнувши такому сословию,Присягнувши таким вот френдам!И —Рам-пам-пам-пам,Рам-па-па-ру-рам!

– XXXVIII-

The winds out of the west land blow,My friends have breathed them there;Warm with the blood of lads I knowComes east the sighing air.It fanned their temples, filled their lungs,Scattered their forelocks free;My friends made words of it with tonguesThat talk no more to me.Their voices, dying as they fly,Thick on the wind are sown;The names of men blow soundless by,My fellows' and my own.Oh lads, at home I heard you plain,But here your speech is still,And down the sighing wind in vainYou hollo from the hill.The wind and I, we both were there,But neither long abode;Now through the friendless world we fareAnd sigh upon the road.

– 38-
ГЕТЕРОСЕКСУАЛЬНАЯ АПРОПРИАЦИЯ

The winds out of the west land blow,My girl has breathed them there;Warm with the blood of girl I know,Comes east the sighing air.It fanned her temples, filled her lungs,Scattered her forelock free;My girl made words of it with tongueThat talks no more to me.Her sweet voice, dying as it flies,Thick on the wind is sown;The name of man blows soundless by,My rival's, not my own.Oh yesterday I heard you plain,But now your speech is still,And down the sighing wind in vainI hollo from the hill.The wind and I, we both were there,But neither long abode;Now through the friendless world we fareAnd sigh upon the road.

– XXXIX-

'Tis time, I think, by Wenlock townThe golden broom should blow;The hawthorn sprinkled up and downShould charge the land with snow.Spring will not wait the loiterer's timeWho keeps so long away;So others wear the broom and climbThe hedgerows heaped with may.Oh tarnish late on Wenlock Edge,Gold that I never see;Lie long, high snowdrifts in the hedgeThat will not shower on me.

– 39-

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