the happiest girl
Join Date: 02 2002
Uploads: 0Reputation: 63 | 4
Re: Tribute to Leonid Engibarov
Translated from Russian by Kurt Porter
To the girl who can fly.
Just do not be afraid. Nothing will ever happen to you, because you have two hearts. If in the air one should miss a beat, the second will begin to pulse.
You got one of them from your mother.
She could do this because 19 years ago she was able to fall in love. Do not laugh; it is not easy to fall in love.
You received your second heart from me. Carry my wild heart in your bosom.
And do not fear anything.
They are with you. Should one fail for a moment, the second will begin to pulse.
Just do not worry about me. It is easy and wonderful for me to walk this earth. Anyone can understand that.
My heart is in your bosom.
She loved him.
She knew he was a wondrous matador.
He could work miracles with his muleta, and the scintillating sword he held seemed to be an extension of his agile hand. However, even being amazingly dexterous, superbly fast, exceptionally handsome, and extraordinary fearless, he did not become a renowned matador.
He could not do what is most important for a matador.
He could not kill.
And she loved him for this.
As you take your seat at Childhood Station on the train of Life, do not push your way to the window. Your impressions of life will be too superficial. And it matters not at all what type of coach you have, although some believe it nearly a tragedy if they do not travel first-class.
In the end, if you have a ticket – a birth certificate -- you have a seat… What’s important is something else: at each of life’s many stations-Youth, Adulthood, Creativity, Failure, and maybe Happiness, and at many other joyful, but unfortunately brief stops, you should have done everything possible so that when your time comes, you may bid farewell at the quiet, final stop…
Oh, how his neighbors condemned the artist! Everyone spoke of how talented he was, but what a pity it was that he drank, secretly rejoicing that in this, he was one of them.
And no one knew that in the artist’s home, long had his wine jug held common spring water, and it was brought to him in the mornings with a light gait by the one he loved.
And that he became intoxicated by drinking in the morning sun, the whiteness of snowy peaks, and he splashed them across his canvas.
I went to his ever open home, drank water from that wine jug, and went home staggering, happy and sad.
Probably, this was, after all, not common spring water, or it was the doing of the lithe arms that poured the water and the eyes of the girl who so loved the artist, eyes the color of a mountain violet.
My poor head is spinning so, but I feel so good! And so my stupid neighbors have already started to talk about me. Well, let them!