The Dialogue

(The translation of the poem by J. Brodsky)

“There, on the slope he is lying.
All the time raging wind there blows.
On every oak’s crown there’re crying
choirs of singing crows.”
“Where is he lying, can’t hear.
The leaves loudly rustle in the gale.
The sounds of your voice disappear.
Oh, tell me your roof tale again.”

“I said, the dark birds are crying
in each and in every crown.
Many, many a scion
from heavenly thrones fly down”.
“The winds in the darkness are laughing:
oh, was he a crow that sings.
Too loud, I distinguish nothing,
what about crowns and kings.”

“His efforts (as if he was smuggling)
he hid in the darkness of night.
All he had done when struggling –
for one black bird – wings of might.
“The winds, the winds interfere.
God, calm them by saying your word.
What on earth was he doing here,
if he lived in the people’s world?”

Leaves pensively rustle in a prayer,
but he’s breathing no more where he lies.
Look at this cloud in the air,
it is his soul that flies.
“And now, and now I am grasping:
his flight in the night he wove.
And now he is lying, clasping
the roots of the oaks of the grove.”

“The roof, the roof I am paving
of oaks’ foliage – above and beyond.
He’s lying as quiet as the grave there,
below all the stems and the pond.
I crowned him with haze where he foundered.
As a king he deserves to be crowned.
“How is he doing, I wonder.”
“No more can he rise from the ground.
There, with the crown he is lying,
My tale of him has now blurred.
“Was he a crow, I inquire?”

“A bird he was, truly a bird.”