Оден-Бродский-Часы останови-Back to English

Stop all the clocks, unplug the goddamn phone.
To mute that yipping dog, let it enjoy a bone.
Put covers on the harps; then under sobs of kin
And throbs of drums, begin to bring the coffin in.

Let overhead the planes their howls justify
In writing, “He is dead” inscribing on the sky.
Let those snow-white scarfs conceal the grief of doves,
At intersections, the police put on black gloves.

He was my North, my East, my South and my West,
My six-day working sweat, my holy week-end fest,
The lyric and its tune, the names for day and night.
For love, I thought, there was no end. I was not right.

Extinguish Zodiac, forever disregard
The Spheres, wrap the Moon, and take the Sun apart,
Drain all the oceans off, and broom the forests clean.
From now on, one nothing finds therein. 


Часы останови, забудь про телефон
И бобику дай кость, чтобы не тявкал он.
Накрой чехлом рояль; под барабана дробь
И всхлипыванья пусть теперь выносят гроб.

Пускай аэроплан, свой объясняя вой,
Начертит в небесах “Он мертв” над головой,
И лебедь в бабочку из крепа спрячет грусть,
Регулировщики – в перчатках черных пусть.

Он был мой Север, Юг, мой Запад, мой Восток,
Мой шестидневный труд, мой выходной восторг,
Слова и их мотив, местоимений сплав.
Любви, считал я, нет конца. Я был не прав.

Созвездья погаси и больше не смотри
Вверх. Упакуй луну и солнце разбери,
Слей в чашку океан, лес чисто подмети.
Отныне ничего в них больше не найти.


W. H. Auden


    Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
    Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
    Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
    Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

    Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
    Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
    Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
    Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

    He was my North, my South, my East and West,
    My working week and my Sunday rest,
    My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
    I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

    The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
    Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
    Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
    For nothing now can ever come to any good.