Kitobni o'qish: «Poems of Siamanto»

1. THE SONG OF THE KNIGHT

 
THE sun is up, the hour has come for starting, O my steed!
A moment wait till I pass my foot through thy stirrup glittering clear.
I read my Aim in thy shining eyes, that know and understand.
Oh, joy of joys! Oh, blest be thou, my steed, my steed so dear!
 
 
My body still is firm and light with the joy and spring of youth,
And on thy saddle I shall perch like an eagle, proud and free.
 
 
The golden oats that I gave to thee in plenty, O my steed!
Have made mad life through thy form flame up; how fleet thy course will be!
 
 
Galloping thou wilt fly along, fly ever upon thy way,
And sparks from the strokes of thy brazen shoes will blossom as we go past.
Let us grow drunk with our rapid course like heroes, O my steed!
And, infinitely wing’ed like the wind, drink in the blast!
 
 
The boundless space before thy pace recedes and disappears,
The sinful cities with all their crimes bow down beneath thy tread.
Black flocks of crows that tremble thy swiftness to behold
Are seeking shelter in the clouds, the thick clouds overhead.
 
 
The sad earth seems below us and we up among the stars;
Thou no abyss nor downward slope dost heed, with eyes aflame;
There is no obstacle, no rock that can thy flight impede;
Impatient, fain wouldst thou attain the summit of the Aim.
 
 
My fleet, fleet steed! My idol of snow-white marble fair!
With all my soul I worship thee! As on our course we fly,
My dreamy brow is burning with the flames of mine Ideal;
Oh, spur me onward to my Aim! Slave of thy footsteps I!
 
 
I am the slave of thy fleet steps, child of the hurricane!
Speed on, athirst for vengeance, O swift, swift steed of mine!
A needless halt I spurn and hate, with all my anger’s might.
Ours are the summits, and the wreath of victory is thine!
 
 
Thy delicate cream-white body boils with thine ardent fire of life;
Thy tail is a cataract; rushing down, like a hurricane it blows.
Within thine eyes, so bright and keen, there shine two flaming stars;
The ring of thy swift shoes forges fear, as onward our journey goes.
 
 
I told thee that I am thy slave, for liberty athirst.
Oh, bear me swiftly toward the South, away from this frontier!
We shall be clothed with suns and blood, beyond the stately heights
Of Ararat and Aragatz. Speed on, my courser dear!
 
 
I hold no whip within my hand, my courser, thou art free;
Upon thy back, that glistens like a lily white and fair,
I only shed sweet touches of my fingers as we go.
They touch thy bright flesh like a stream of honey dropping there.
 
 
Thou hast no bridle upon thy neck, no bit within thy mouth;
Enough for me one wave of hair from thy full mane backward flung,
I have no need of stirrup-irons for my feet to grip thy sides;
A silver saddle thou hast alone, a saddle with pearls bestrung.
 
 
For my native valleys I yearn, I yearn, the valleys that hold my home,
But halt thou never, my courser swift, the star-strewn heavens below!
Away by the mouths of caverns deep like a shadow thou must pass,
From forests, vineyards and gardens green still farther and farther go.
 
 
Who knows, perchance a maiden fair by the side of a running brook
Might hand me a cluster of golden grapes, and proffer a draught of wine;
My soul might understand her, and she like a sister smile on me —
But I do not wish to be lost in dreams; halt not, swift steed of mine I
 
 
Thou wilt pass by the shadowy bowers of my birthplace, Eden-fair;
The nightingale, the nightingale, fain would I drink her song!
The rose-scent, on my pilgrimage, I have dreamed of many a year.
Oh, how my heart is yearning! But halt not, speed along.
 
 
And in my pathway haply old corpses might arise,
Their shrouds upon their shoulders, their hands held out to me,
Approach me – me the wretched! – and breathe upward to mine ear
Their loves and vengeance ne’er to be forgot – but onward flee!
 
 
I shudder at the ruins and at barren, helpless pangs.
My courser, near the ashes of the cities make no stay!
Oh, tears, the tears of others, they choke me without ruth;
The woe, the griefs of others drive me mad, upon my way!
 
 
Oh, do not halt, my courser, where these corpses scattered lie!
Fly far away from graveyards, where white shades of dead men be.
I cannot bear, I tell thee, I cannot bear again
The death of my dear native land with anguished eyes to see!
 
 
Behold the landscape of the place in which I had my birth!
At sight of it my longing glance with tears grows moist and glows.
But yet I would not shed them; nay, do not pause or stay,
My steed, my steed of swiftest flight! My Aim no weakness knows.
 
 
Lo! ’tis Euphrates sounding. Why, river, dost thou roar?
Thy son is passing. Why so dark the flood thy shore that laves?
I am thy son. Oh, do not rage! Hast thou forgotten me?