Чайки

Чайки  кричали  над  пеной  прибоя  призывно  и  будто  рыдая
жалились  морю  как  ветер  неистово  рвал  в  полёте  им  крылья:
стиснув,  сдавив и сгоняя  с  небес,  безжалостно  нёс их
навзничь  небрежно  бросая,  стремительно,  прямо  к  пучине

плакались  чайки,  их  стоны  над  морем  неслись  ураганом,
веером  сыпались  на  воду  пригоршни  криков  надрывных

когда  ветер стих, то море, устав от безумной погони,
облегчённо вздохнуло, укрыв горизонт пеленой серебристой.
и чайки исчезли.  но след отпечатался в волнАх, как  шрам на ладони.
да  гул  эха  тоски задержался в груди: пронзительно-горький, но чистый.

и понял тогда: тот крик, что надрывный, он нЕ был жАлобой слабой:
судьба расчертила так  небо своим  размашистым, дерзким росчерком.
слепо  ей повинуясь: и ветер, и море сплетались в едином порыве упрямом,
а чайки летели сквозь бурю  не ради спасения, а вопреки.

и долго ещё над остывшим простором блуждало  эхо,
дрожащим напевом сплетаясь с дыханием сонного моря.
казалось, сама тишина их мольбу с заботою  чуткой хранила,
как тайну, что ветру не сдуть, а волне не снести за собою.

для нас чайки эти: чёткий символ надЕжды,   
не дрогнувшЕй  в чередЕ испытАний.

перевод:

Seagulls

The gulls did cry above the surf’s white foam,
With summoning call, as if in lamentation they did roam.
They poured their sorrow unto the sea, while the tempest wild and dire
Did rend their wings asunder in the flight, with fury that aspired.
It clasped them close, it crushed them down, from the heavens to displace,
And bore them headlong, heedless of their plight, unto the deep’s embrace.
Swift and straight it cast them to the abyss, where the dark waves hold their sway,
As if the very elements conspired to sweep them all away.

The gulls did weep; their moans above the sea did swell like tempest’s breath,
And handfuls of strained and shattered cries did fall like petals unto death.
In scattered showers they drifted down upon the water’s restless face,
A storm of sound, a plea without relief, in sorrow’s endless chase.

When the wind grew still, the sea, grown weary of that mad pursuit,
Did sigh with quiet solace, veiling the horizon in a silver shroud so mute.
The gulls had vanished from the sight, their forms dissolved in air and light,
Yet their trace remained upon the waves, like a scar etched deep and bright—
A mark that lingers on the sea, as a scar upon a palm might lie,
Enduring, stark, a silent witness to the anguish passing by.
And the hum of echoed longing lingered yet within the breast’s deep core,
Piercingly bitter, yet pure and clear—a truth that cannot be ignored.

Then I did understand: that strained and ragged cry was no faint complaint or plea,
But Fate had scored the vaulted sky with its bold and daring decree.
With sweeping stroke and reckless hand it traced the heavens’ arc on high,
Defying measure, breaking bounds, beneath the indifferent sky.
Blindly obeying that dark command, the wind and sea did intertwine,
In one relentless, stubborn surge, as though the world were theirs to bind.
While the gulls did fly through tempest’s heart, not for salvation’s tender grace,
But in defiance of the storm itself, to meet its fury face to face.

And long thereafter, o’er the cooling, empty expanse, the echo did abide,
Weaving its trembling melody with the breathing of the sea, grown tired.
It seemed that Silence, in her quiet care, did keep their plea with tender art,
As a secret held within her breast, too deep for wind to rend apart.
Too strong for waves to carry off into the void, beyond recall,
A truth preserved in hush and shade, that outlasts the tempest’s fall.

For us, these gulls are a clear symbol of Hope, that ne’er did quake or yield,
Unshaken through the turning wheel of trials, in the tempest’s fiercest field.
Though winds did rage and seas did roar, and skies grew dark with doubt and dread,
That spirit held, unbroken, firm—a light that would not fade nor fled.