Стихи Джозефа Фазано в переводах Ала Пантелята

Joseph Fasano

At last the wrens have nested
In the hollows
Of his arches, in a house

That will not last. What’s wild
Has come to find him, and our sad,
Unhouseled father, whose hands

Can’t hold their labor, has hobbled to his windows
To lift his fading
Language, like silt

From out his rivers, like those fists
Of empty bridles, in a prayer
That he has practiced-for order,

For dominion, as he once kept stallions
Still. All fall I’ve cursed the hours
Of carrying his body

Through these rooms
Where illness thins him, in the places
He has knelt in, where I swore

I never would. But today, in bare
Exhaustion, I bowed down
By his waters, and felt a body drifting

Through the shadows
Of my body, through cairns
Of ancient pyres, through the burdock’s

Twisted folds. Like the silence
After family, like the rust
Across its voices, it stooped to kiss the winter

Work had written
In my shoulders, it sniffed
My salted hair. O I knew

It hadn't come. But tell me,
Now, I whispered, between this water
And this fire, this rest

And worldly labor, in which way
Am I wanted, will you tell me
Where to go? And with love, and sudden

Wonder, as though it had been
Waiting, the silent thing behind me whispered
No and no and no.