Спомен/ Recall

I had a good friend,
He was wonderful fellow ,
But...So badly and often
he was starting that coughing...
He worked as a "stoke-fire-guy"-
wearing coal in huge pannier,
than the ash throwing out-
in every twelve hours
every given night...

I remember the Eyes
of this "coal-fire-ash" guy.
I remember the Dry in these eyes,
soaking thirstily
inside every one Ray of shivering Light,
which was coming by chance
through the black,
even though through the soot-
rays was entering rarely
our cage so well known.

How promptly, in time,
they was giving the rise
of the feverish thirst
in the springtime that comes,
when the leafs was whispering
somewhere Out in the yard,
somewhere Out in the Open,
when a bird flight was soaring!

I was sensing the way
of this countersinks praying-
how they suffer in pain,
how they suffer distressingly!
They wanted so little,
a bit mercy on-
"'Till the springtime, next springtime
at least " to be spared...

She-The Spring- came in time,
splendid, nice, full of Sun,
warm like breath, fresh like whiff,
with the fragrance of roses.
Far off, Distant aroma
of the Violet wild-
it was drifting an wandering
the clear, blue sky.
But inside- there was dark,
heavy, weight, overloaded
by the stone-deaf sound
of the prose laying down...

So on...
Since the Life muddled
down here, inside
the engine was functioning bad way.
It started suspiciously snoring
and... stopped.
I do not know WHY,
but maybe
because the other guy... died.

Or maybe the cause of this
break-down was other.
May be in it's hunger
the engine was tarring
the hand in the right-
to throw in it's bottomless fiery inferno
the coal-seam in time...
Yes, maybe. I don't know.

But this consistent feeling
for me was alike-
That the engine's stammering
wailing was asking:
"Oh, where , whereabouts
is the other lad now?"

The other- He died.
And so on-
outside- is already springtime.
Somewhere afield-
the birds shoot the sky,
so far away...
He will see them no more
Not anymore he will.

Oh, man, what a Friend he was...
What a wonderful lad!..
But so badly , so often
he just started That coughing...
Just another one stoker guy-
wearing coal in the pannier,
then the ash throwing out-
in every twelve hours
Every Given Night.


Спомен

Аз имах другар,
добър другар,
но... кашляше лошо.
Той беше огняр -
пренасяше с коша кюмюр,
изхвърляше сгур
дванадесет часа на нощ.

Аз помня очите
на този огняр.
Как жадно поглъщаха тези очи
всички лъчи,
които случайно,
през сажди макар,
се вмъкваха редко
във нашата клетка.

Как бързо се раждаше
трескава жажда
напролет,
когато шумят
листата на двора,
в простора
когато
се стрелкаше ято от птици.

Аз чувствах
как тези зеници се молят,
как страдат,
как тягостно страдат!
Те искаха толкова малка пощада -
до пролет,
до другата пролет...

Тя - пролетта -
дойде прекрасна:
със слънце,
с топъл лъх
и рози.
Далечен,
теменужен дъх
се носеше в небето ясно.
Но вътре беше мрак
и как тежеше
легналата проза...

И тъй,
у нас живота се обърка.
Моторът не работеше добре. -
Започна подозрително да хърка
и... спре.
Не знам защо,
но може би,
защото другият умре.

А може би не е така.
А може би, във своя глад,
моторът чакаше ръка
да хвърли в огнения ад
навреме въглищния пласт.
Да, може би.
Не зная аз.

Но мен се струваше, че той,
в заекващия си брътвеж,
ме питаше с болезнен вой:
"Къде е другия младеж?"

Той - другият - умре.
А ето -
отвън е пролет.
Надалече
се стрелкат птици по небето.
Но той не ще ги види вече.

А бе такъв другар...
Добър другар!...
Но кашляше лошо.
Един огняр.
Пренасяше с коша кюмюр,
изхвърляше сгур
дванадесет часа на нощ.

Никола Вапцаров