Перевод стихотворения Беллы Ахмадулиной

It is so bad to live the way I lived,-
amidst the feast with the apathetic crowd,
and banal platitude – our inborn ‘gift’-
is twisting in my head in a vicious circuit.

To be a beast tamed in the alien homes,
to carry pouring enmity in eyes,
to be the target of the town gossips
instead of bringing light to people’s minds.

To be content with the luxury of troubles.
In heated and malevolent neglect
to watch the values popping like the bubbles,
the morals I’d been forging in my head.

To be lassoed and pulled onto the knees,
to walk, head-down, through the horde,
to turn the face away from bare trees,
to be accursed, abhorrent, and abhorred.

My empty, dried out soul is hard to heal:
I have been wandering without my heroes,
and what about myself? It’s no big deal!
why bother when we look in funhouse mirrors.

To tease the angry pitiless machines,
to be reborn again, despite all torments,
My men’s protection is my only shield
when the crazy world is ready for atonement.

To hypocritically tempt the trouble,
but, blinded by well-calcualted schemes,
to hope for darkness in the gardens,
and write again on crowd-pleasing themes.

What kind of secret is in love with me?
who is a beneficiary of my salvation?
if I am destined to become, eventually,
a lycanthrope denying liberation?

Oh, there it is! The trees and rivers
are ready to expose their timeworn colors,
my hand, a primeval but skilled sharpshooter,
throws flames on their waxy pallor.

The pencil writes in an obsequious way,
it hurries to bow down, sacrifice its grace,
the harshness of the soul melts away,
exposing real feature, form, and face.

I stare shrewdly at the skies and woods.
Like unfamiliar and weird idol
I’m standing out with the hugeness of my face
that saw no any other rivals.

I’m not ashamed of what I have committed,
nor have I fear of the coming days
I simply sweep the hair from my forehead
to keep my sanity in modern haze.