Judul : Anna Akhmatova: "They're not my kin who left the land" (From Russian)
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Anna Akhmatova: "They're not my kin who left the land" (From Russian)
If you speak Russian, then know that yes I do realize how much liberty I took with the last two lines. What can I say: English morphosyntax gives poetry different constraints than Russian.
On Not Emigrating
By Anna Akhmatova
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Click to hear me recite the original Russian
They're not my kind who left the land
To enemies and plundering.
I do not heed their vulgar praise.
My songs are not for them to sing.
But I ever do I grieve for exiles,
Like inmates, like the nearly dead.
Dark is the road you wander, rovers,
As wormwood fills your foreign bread.
But here at home where conflagrations
Consume the last of youth, we go
Unbeaten by the blast, our bodies
Did not deflect a single blow.
We know a later reckoning
Shall vindicate each hour's pain.
We are the tearless of the earth.
We are the proud. We are the plain.
The Original:
"Не с теми я, кто бросил землю..."
Не с теми я, кто бросил землю
На растерзание врагам.
Их грубой лести я не внемлю,
Им песен я своих не дам.
Но вечно жалок мне изгнанник,
Как заключенный, как больной.
Темна твоя дорога, странник,
Полынью пахнет хлеб чужой.
А здесь, в глухом чаду пожара
Остаток юности губя,
Мы ни единого удара
Не отклонили от себя.
И знаем, что в оценке поздней
Оправдан будет каждый час...
Но в мире нет людей бесслезней,
Надменнее и проще нас.
On Not Emigrating
By Anna Akhmatova
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Click to hear me recite the original Russian
They're not my kind who left the land
To enemies and plundering.
I do not heed their vulgar praise.
My songs are not for them to sing.
But I ever do I grieve for exiles,
Like inmates, like the nearly dead.
Dark is the road you wander, rovers,
As wormwood fills your foreign bread.
But here at home where conflagrations
Consume the last of youth, we go
Unbeaten by the blast, our bodies
Did not deflect a single blow.
We know a later reckoning
Shall vindicate each hour's pain.
We are the tearless of the earth.
We are the proud. We are the plain.
The Original:
"Не с теми я, кто бросил землю..."
Не с теми я, кто бросил землю
На растерзание врагам.
Их грубой лести я не внемлю,
Им песен я своих не дам.
Но вечно жалок мне изгнанник,
Как заключенный, как больной.
Темна твоя дорога, странник,
Полынью пахнет хлеб чужой.
А здесь, в глухом чаду пожара
Остаток юности губя,
Мы ни единого удара
Не отклонили от себя.
И знаем, что в оценке поздней
Оправдан будет каждый час...
Но в мире нет людей бесслезней,
Надменнее и проще нас.
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