(no subject)

Сидя на работе в шубе при температуре плюс 13 и не попадая зуб на зуб, подорвалась перегнать на английский известный стих Эренбурга. С учетом правки justice_rainger вот что вышло.

How can the children of the south,
Where roses shine in December,
Where you can't find the word "blizzard"
In people's memory or a dictionary;
Where the sky is blue
And doesn't bleach even for an hour,
Where many centuries in a row
The same summer flatters the eye;
How can they really - at least briefly,
At least for a moment, even in a dream, -
Though inadvertently guess
What it means to think about spring?
What it means - in the cold of March,
When desperation takes your mind
Continuously wait and wait, as the clumsy ice
Begins to move.
And we’ve lived through such winters,
Accustomed to such cold,
That we even felt no sadness
But pride and misfortune.
And being in strong, icy resentment,
Blinded by dry blizzard,
We were seeing already, even without seeing,
The green eyes of spring.

Ilya Ehrenburg.

Замечательный перевод получился!
Не знала об этом стихотворении.
Что ж у вас, не топят?
Перевод знатный получился. Жаль, не в стихах.
Да топят, но когда офис был пустой две недели - и при минус 25-ти на улице, в основном, - то, конечно, даже два обогревателя не спасают.
Can ever children of the tropics,
Where in December roses bloom,
Where in thesauruses the topic
Of blizzard isn't granted room,
Can, in the lands, where skies are azure
And forecasts cannot go awry,
Where summer never stops to pleasure
The body and amuse the eye,
Can ever they, let for an instant,
In dreams, if even indistinct,
Let inadvertently, by instinct,
Grasp what it means to think of spring,
What means, in March, when almost freezes
The air, and terror holds its grip,
To hope, for almost no reason,
For river ice to start its trip.
And we've such vintage winters known,
Such sorts of cold had to abide,
That there remained nor grief nor groan,
But only poverty and pride.
And bitter little human beings
Blindfolded by the snow sting,
We could foresee, while hardly seeing,
That overwhelming green of spring.

А вот это я нашла перевод в стихах, некоего Александра Гивенталя.
Чудесный стих!
По поводы температуры в окружающей действительности - переживаем такое два-три раза в год в отсутствии отопления в нашем старинном промерзшем до фундамента особняке, полном всяческих загадок и особенно приведений)). Поэтому очень хорошо понимаю и отчаянно сочувствую)

Edited at 2016-01-12 07:41 am (UTC)