com-pli-ca-ted
английский вариант "нас учили...". перевод - Яна Кане, редактировал Брюс Эсриг, огромное им спасибо.
(страница Яны на Точке Зрения - https://litpoint.press/author/yanakane/ )
we were taught differently: let go, forgive, do not fight,
(no, you may not whack right in the snout).
always offer, if not the other cheek, then at least a hand;
help them to their feet, speak to them, do not shout.
you see, we were taught to remember, to understand
the world is com-pli-ca-ted, never just black and white.
our make-believe villains’ stories deserved to be heard:
rough beginnings and youth, poignant memories shrouded in pain;
set to music - an oboe, a flute - such gorgeous strains,
grand and epic, a drama in a hundred thousand words.
as bookish kids, we knew a different evil - we recall it well-
take Koschei the Deathless: that old sorcerer’s downfall
was his reckless love for Vasilisa, a wily girl.
he hid his death in an egg, then was foolish enough to spill
to his bride the secret of cracking the shell to undo the spell
(how easy he was to kill!)
we know about pitiful Scrooge, obsessed with profit and price;
about the Snow Queen crowned with frost in her palace of ice,
how she let Kai go with Gerda and did not give chase -
because, after all, what good was the boy to her?
he was bored with the toys she gave him, and would not stir
to make her a cup of coffee or take on household chores.
even the knight with a heart of stone once had a living heart.
even the horrid Morra craved the warmth of a friendly hearth.
the monster merely sought a shelter under the bed;
the lion was a playful cat…
those are fairy tales. reality is not like that.
real evil knows no hesitation - its face is blank.
when it locks its eyes on a target, it does not blink.
whatever gets in the way is a mere obstacle - junk - even if it is living
(especially if it is living).
you know, а plague does not pause to discuss or explain;
it has no interest in diplomacy or restraint.
real evil is mechanical - it makes a repetitive sound:
the whine of a bullet, a rocket whistling down
to crash in the huddled quiet of a peaceful town.
real evil is two-dimensional, like a sheet of paper, a rag;
yet a rag is just the thing for making a flag.
later, this will be taught to grammar school pupils
of Kharkov, Bucha, Kherson, Borodyanka and Mariupol:
evil is unmistakable, like rabies; flat like a bandage unrolled.
this was set down by elders with their scratchy quills:
if someone tells you he’ll liberate you against your will,
he means to bomb your cities and shoot to kill;
believe what you’ve been told.
(страница Яны на Точке Зрения - https://litpoint.press/author/yanakane/ )
we were taught differently: let go, forgive, do not fight,
(no, you may not whack right in the snout).
always offer, if not the other cheek, then at least a hand;
help them to their feet, speak to them, do not shout.
you see, we were taught to remember, to understand
the world is com-pli-ca-ted, never just black and white.
our make-believe villains’ stories deserved to be heard:
rough beginnings and youth, poignant memories shrouded in pain;
set to music - an oboe, a flute - such gorgeous strains,
grand and epic, a drama in a hundred thousand words.
as bookish kids, we knew a different evil - we recall it well-
take Koschei the Deathless: that old sorcerer’s downfall
was his reckless love for Vasilisa, a wily girl.
he hid his death in an egg, then was foolish enough to spill
to his bride the secret of cracking the shell to undo the spell
(how easy he was to kill!)
we know about pitiful Scrooge, obsessed with profit and price;
about the Snow Queen crowned with frost in her palace of ice,
how she let Kai go with Gerda and did not give chase -
because, after all, what good was the boy to her?
he was bored with the toys she gave him, and would not stir
to make her a cup of coffee or take on household chores.
even the knight with a heart of stone once had a living heart.
even the horrid Morra craved the warmth of a friendly hearth.
the monster merely sought a shelter under the bed;
the lion was a playful cat…
those are fairy tales. reality is not like that.
real evil knows no hesitation - its face is blank.
when it locks its eyes on a target, it does not blink.
whatever gets in the way is a mere obstacle - junk - even if it is living
(especially if it is living).
you know, а plague does not pause to discuss or explain;
it has no interest in diplomacy or restraint.
real evil is mechanical - it makes a repetitive sound:
the whine of a bullet, a rocket whistling down
to crash in the huddled quiet of a peaceful town.
real evil is two-dimensional, like a sheet of paper, a rag;
yet a rag is just the thing for making a flag.
later, this will be taught to grammar school pupils
of Kharkov, Bucha, Kherson, Borodyanka and Mariupol:
evil is unmistakable, like rabies; flat like a bandage unrolled.
this was set down by elders with their scratchy quills:
if someone tells you he’ll liberate you against your will,
he means to bomb your cities and shoot to kill;
believe what you’ve been told.