Скрипка

Иван Васильевич Бисев
СКРИПКА

Пела скрипка мне о смерти:
То вонзались в сердце звуки,
То молитвенно, как руки,
Тихо складывались в песню.


Пела скрипка мне о скорби.
И звучал мольбой нездешней
Звук, таинственный и нежный.
Так о скорби пела скрипка.


А смычок, как стебель гибкий,
Черпал слёзы вдохновенья.
Так о радости забвенья
Мне, рыдая, пела скрипка.



Неземное наслажденье
Душу страстно мне терзало.
Так о счастье рассказала,
Прежде незнакомом, скрипка.

1986


THE VIOLIN (перевод с русского)
The violin was singing of the death
She pierced with her strings my subtle heart,
Her moving sounds inspired with His breath
Were turning into masterpiece of art.


The violin was singing of the grief
She touched the soul with her celestial tune
She prayed with great devotion and belief
The sounds were melting rising to the moon.


She sang of love, oblivion and peace,
Her slender bow was brittle like a stalk,
Her strings were wet with tiny wooden tears,
Unfortunately, the violin couldn't talk.


My mind was full of unexpected joy,
My heart discovered greatest truth in life.
This happiness that I can now enjoy
Awakened dozing soul and showed the light.

Ivan Bisev