да, кстати...
... вот ещё перевод Олдёвской "Баллады о Кулаке" на английский. Оригинал например здесь.
The Chant of the Fist.
Once, a monk went for a stroll
Flowers in his begging bowl
Lotus Sutra in his bag
And five pimples on his back.
A drunken bully crossed his path
Called him names and kicked his ... : ( ,
Robbed of everything he got,
Even took the flower pot!
Poor monk now stands and cries,
Broken heart and blackened eyes,
Not a single scrap to eat,
A spiritual defeat.
With rude laymen such as these,
Who can hope for inner peace?
Quite impossible to teach,
Hinayana sonna bitch.
Fearing bodily harm,
Monks appeal to Bodhidharma,
First of Chan, most holy priest,
Blue-eyed teacher of the East.
How to meditate and pray
Robbed and beaten every day?
Cease your staring at the wall,
Come inside and help us all.
Spoke Daruma: cloistered friends,
Faith requires self-defense,
Let us gather and devise
Ways of healthy excercise.
An enlightened monk can see
World in all its villainy,
If the evil would persist
We must smite it with a fist.
Shaven brothers, quit your naps,
Work on pectorals and abs!
Raise the sweat, make faces red,
Better red than cold and dead.
Patriarchs in safron cloth,
Run the distance, back and forth.
I don't know but I've been told
Seventh hell is pretty cold!
Ancient father, grab a stick,
Flail around, and twist, and kick.
Crouching Tiger! Peking Duck!
Twenty-Third Unarmed Attack!
Lousy tourist from the West,
Come and practice with the rest.
Throw away your travel sack,
Break a brick, or break your neck.
When a monk is feeling blue,
He should chop a board in two.
When upset by idle talk,
Go ahead and crush a rock.
Contemplating suicide --
Why not take it outside?
Chase the doubt from your mind,
Stick a villain from behind.
Imitate, at least a while,
Praying mantiss, Northen style.
Heed the kindly mentor's word
Anything can be a sword:
Hammer, sickle, mattocks, hoes.
Strike a pretty heron pose.
Smash and strangle, cut and stun,
Foe can only run, run, run!
Once, a monk went for a stroll
Flowers in his begging bowl
Emei piercers in his bag
Masakari on his back.
Met a drunken oaf alone,
Broke his every major bone.
This is where the story ends.
Buddha's peace be with you, friends.
The Chant of the Fist.
Once, a monk went for a stroll
Flowers in his begging bowl
Lotus Sutra in his bag
And five pimples on his back.
A drunken bully crossed his path
Called him names and kicked his ... : ( ,
Robbed of everything he got,
Even took the flower pot!
Poor monk now stands and cries,
Broken heart and blackened eyes,
Not a single scrap to eat,
A spiritual defeat.
With rude laymen such as these,
Who can hope for inner peace?
Quite impossible to teach,
Hinayana sonna bitch.
Fearing bodily harm,
Monks appeal to Bodhidharma,
First of Chan, most holy priest,
Blue-eyed teacher of the East.
How to meditate and pray
Robbed and beaten every day?
Cease your staring at the wall,
Come inside and help us all.
Spoke Daruma: cloistered friends,
Faith requires self-defense,
Let us gather and devise
Ways of healthy excercise.
An enlightened monk can see
World in all its villainy,
If the evil would persist
We must smite it with a fist.
Shaven brothers, quit your naps,
Work on pectorals and abs!
Raise the sweat, make faces red,
Better red than cold and dead.
Patriarchs in safron cloth,
Run the distance, back and forth.
I don't know but I've been told
Seventh hell is pretty cold!
Ancient father, grab a stick,
Flail around, and twist, and kick.
Crouching Tiger! Peking Duck!
Twenty-Third Unarmed Attack!
Lousy tourist from the West,
Come and practice with the rest.
Throw away your travel sack,
Break a brick, or break your neck.
When a monk is feeling blue,
He should chop a board in two.
When upset by idle talk,
Go ahead and crush a rock.
Contemplating suicide --
Why not take it outside?
Chase the doubt from your mind,
Stick a villain from behind.
Imitate, at least a while,
Praying mantiss, Northen style.
Heed the kindly mentor's word
Anything can be a sword:
Hammer, sickle, mattocks, hoes.
Strike a pretty heron pose.
Smash and strangle, cut and stun,
Foe can only run, run, run!
Once, a monk went for a stroll
Flowers in his begging bowl
Emei piercers in his bag
Masakari on his back.
Met a drunken oaf alone,
Broke his every major bone.
This is where the story ends.
Buddha's peace be with you, friends.