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Стихи Джозефа Фазано в переводах Ала Пантелята

Joseph Fasano The Dead Here they are. They sit in their old rooms, clutching the soft riding gloves of October. The wind lies open beside them like the pages of a gospel they can't follow. They have exhausted each other. They have worn off their gold rings with tenderness, their soles as the moon floods their foyers, shuffling it away through the thresholds. They are the darkening pastures they are heirs to. Listen: you must give them to winter. You wake, and the light's name is in ruins. You speak, and the waking is wilder, the wind is the melody of disaster playing itself to completion. The wine weighs its bottles in the cellarage, open and no one's and turned. Listen: this hour is the last hour. You must walk out through the barrenness and falter. You must lie down in the orchestra of winter. You must learn to be sung through as the wind wills: not wholly, not lowly, not risen, not shriven, not long.