Another lunchtime translation.
Sometimes you read a poem and you understand full well that it is impossible to translate, no way. And than, almost a month later, you sit over a cup of tea and in fifteen minutes it is somehow translated. Not perfect, but as a complete item, and you stop and still can not understand how it has happened... .
The original is here.
My poor friend,
Master of Hand
Of the Pale Moon
In this July's
Your private
Freeze
In the middle
Of an undefined country
Quenching the last thirst
Of her,
Who gave you this
Eternal
Temporary birth
A kind death
Or
An evil death
You know
Better than me
Our grudges
Our sulking
Our senseless
Victories
Our complete
Defeats
All end up with
A memorial dinner
And somewhere
In the heavenly hills
A soul is flying
Like a grey seagull
Cutting through the void
A warrior has the right
To cry
Over his mother's body.
The original is here.
My poor friend,
Master of Hand
Of the Pale Moon
In this July's
Your private
Freeze
In the middle
Of an undefined country
Quenching the last thirst
Of her,
Who gave you this
Eternal
Temporary birth
A kind death
Or
An evil death
You know
Better than me
Our grudges
Our sulking
Our senseless
Victories
Our complete
Defeats
All end up with
A memorial dinner
And somewhere
In the heavenly hills
A soul is flying
Like a grey seagull
Cutting through the void
A warrior has the right
To cry
Over his mother's body.