вереница слов

Вдоль  реки  понуро  и  уныло
вереница  слов  еле  плелась:
шаг  за  шагом  шибче  сердце  ныло -
в  неизвестность  повела  тропа.
Автор,  их  когда-то  призывавший -
по  хозяйству  занят  был  в  их появленья  час...
или, ... встретив,  просто  не  признал  их?
Или  хуже - поленился  записать?
В  общем  стало  им  невыносимо одиноко -
бродят  как  бездомные  они.
Сдуло  их,  возможно,  встречным  ветром...
Или  в  поле  залили  дожди...
Может  повезло:  хозяин  новый
приютил  их  и  пустил  в  свой  дом,
может  волки  съели,  мучаясь  от  голода...
   .        .          .
какова  цена  скитаний  слов,
её  оплатит  кто?

перевод:

A string of words

Along the river, dejectedly and dully,
A string of words barely dragged itself along:
Step by step, the heart ached more and more -
A path led into the unknown.

The author who once had called them forth -
Was busy with chores at the hour of their appearing…
Or, having met them, did he simply fail to recognise them?
Or worse - was he too lazy to write them down?

In short, they grew unbearably lonely -
They wander like strays, without a home.

Perhaps the headwind blew them away…
Or the rains drenched them in the field…

Maybe they got lucky: a new master
Took them in and welcomed them into his house,
Or maybe wolves devoured them, tormented by hunger…

.       .        .

What is the price of the words’ wandering,
And who will pay it?

версия музыкальная (расширенная):

на краю заброшенной долины,
вдоль  реки, затерянной средь топи,
по заросшей диким сорняком тропинке
вереница  слов понуро, и уныло
чуть плелась.

одинокая и потерявшаяся
вереница слов.
еле плелась.

шаг  за  шагом  шибче  сердце  ныло:
в  неизвестность  повела  тропа.

автор-литератор,
их  настойчиво и  страстно  призывавший -
занят  по  хозяйству был
в  час появленья  слов...
или, ... встретив,
просто  не  признал  их?
Или  хуже: поленился  записать?
в  общем  стало  им,
невыносимо безнадёжно одиноко -
бродят  как  бездомные  они.

основательно и окончательно  не нужная,
вереница слов.
еле плелась.

может их спалИло солнце злое?
жаром: испепелИло?
может сдуло  бурным
встречным  ветром...
или в поле  зАлили  дожди?

на краю зелёного с цветеньем  пОля,
их залИли   лИвневые   летние   дожди?

может  повезло хозяин новый
приютил их и пустил в свой дом?

он попался им  случайно, ненарОком
пожалел их,
и впустил с в свой дом.
или  волки  съели,
типа:  мучаясь  от  голода...
   .        .          .
какова  цена  скитаний слов?
её  оплатит  кто?

и куда же счастье укатилось?
их: запрошенных, но всё-таки отвергнутых.
выдворенных, выброшенных слов.

перевод версия 2 (баллада):

The Lost Procession of Words

[Intro]
(Low bow on viol, wind-like drone)
On the edge of a valley long forsaken,
Where the river lies lost in the marsh’s dark waking…
Hear the slow drag of words that have no voice,
Walking the weed-choked path with no choice, no choice.

[Verse 1]
Along that river, tangled in the bog,
A line of words crept forward, low and solemn, slow.
Down the path grown wild with thorn and bitter weed,
They dragged themselves along, defeated, lost indeed.

Alone and lost, that procession of words,
Barely dragging on, with no one to be heard.
Step by step, the heart ached sharper, deeper still,
As the trail led them into unknown, cold hill.

[Pre-Chorus]
The writer called them fiercely, yearned to hold them near,
But he was busy with the world—his hands were full, his mind unclear.
Or maybe he met them and just did not know their face,
Or worse—grew weary, let them slip from his embrace.

[Chorus]
And so they wandered, homeless, cold, and bare,
Like stray dogs in the wind, with nowhere left to go.
Thoroughly unwanted, finally set aside,
That line of words just dragged themselves, resigned, inside.

[Verse 2]
Maybe the sun burned them with its cruel, hot glare,
Scorched them to ash, left nothing but the air.
Maybe a wild wind came from the rushing gale,
Blew them away like dust across an empty vale.

Or the rain poured down on the outskirts of the field,
Summer storms that drowned the words before they could reveal
Any secret they were carrying, any hidden trace—
Washed away by downpour, lost without a trace.

[Pre-Chorus]
Or perhaps some stranger found them by pure chance,
Took pity on their silence, gave them shelter, gave them dance.
He opened up his door and let them in at last,
Saved them from the hunger of the wolves that hunted fast.

[Chorus]
And so they wandered, homeless, cold, and bare,
Like stray dogs in the wind, with nowhere left to go.
Thoroughly unwanted, finally set aside,
That line of words just dragged themselves, resigned, inside.

[Verse 3]
Or the wolves did eat them, hungry, fierce, and grim,
Devouring every whisper, every echo thin.
What is the price of wandering, of being left behind?
Who will ever pay it? Who will ever mind?

And where did happiness roll to, tell me why?
These words were begged for, then cast out, made to die.
Cast out and banished, thrown away like broken glass,
Their quiet plea forever silenced in the past.

[Bridge]
No one hears the question now, it fades into the moor,
The cost of being words that no one wanted anymore.
Not chosen, not recorded, not saved from the cold dark tide—
Just left to walk the path where no one wants to ride.

[Chorus]
And so they wandered, homeless, cold, and bare,
Like stray dogs in the wind, with nowhere left to go.
Thoroughly unwanted, finally set aside,
That line of words just dragged themselves, resigned, inside.

[Outro]
(Viol slowly fading, distant hollow percussion like footsteps in mud)
On the edge of the valley, in the hush of the lost,
The words still walk the path they paid too high a cost.
No writer calls them now. No hand will pull them back.
Only the wind remembers how they walked the track.