Səməd
Vurğun.
“Azərbaycan” şeiri
İngilis dilinə 3 tərcümə
variantı
Samad Vurghun
1. Herbert Marshall’s Translation from Russian
I ascended the mountains,
looked into the eyes
Of our sparkling springs
as they bubble and rise,
And from far away
heard the bullrushes’ sighs
And the
slow Arax1
waters nocturnally move.
Here true
friendship I knew, and bright honour, and love.
Steal the soul from its breast? Never let it be said!
You’re my very own breath my water and bread!
See before
me your cities and countryside spread.
And for ever
your son-take this poet and man,
On the mountains
your curls are as white as fresh milk,
Clouds envelop your head
in a yashmak of silk.
And the
countries endless have passed –and pass still,
And your head has grown grey from adversities’ strain.
But despite all you’ve
suffered-more alive you remain.
Ignoramuses libeled that sweet
name of your,
And madmen
foretold that deep sorrow of yours,
Hopes deferred have long
tortured that great heart of yours,
But at last downs
the day when your true glory comes,
A great generation of
daughters and sons.
If a guest
A million suns will astonish
his mights,
If the northern winds
drone through the oil derricks’ heights,
The soft
sands all around will re-echo the peaks,
And the
half-sleepy mountain-range wakes up and speaks.
Steal a mother from child? Never let it be said!
You’re my very own breath, my water and bread!
See before me
your cities and countryside spread.
And for ever your
son-take this poet and man,
2. Peter Tempest’s
translation
I often cross your
hills where rise
Clear springs that
gaze with crane-
blue eyes.
And miles away I
recognize
The Araks'
unrelenting roar.
True friends I value
more and more. ..
Full well our people
understand:
You are my nest, my
haven and
My mother,
dearest native land.
As dear as soul to any
man!
With snow your
mountain-tops are capped,
In cloud-soft shawls
their heads are wrapped.
How great and glorious
your past!
Your age no living
man can tell
Nor list the sorrows
that befell.
Upon you evil tongues
bore down
And months and years
of hardship
frowned.
The glory which is all
your own
Through many
generations runs.
Blest are your
daughters and your sons. . .
Now turn your eyes
toward
Where myriad lights
the shoreline strew.
Your busy derricks old
and new
Bring life to steppe
land grey and pale
And summer shines in
hill and vale.
Full well our people
nderstand:
You are my nest, my
haven and
My mother,
dearest native land.
As dear as soul to any
man!
3. Gladys Evans’ translation
I've walked these mountains again and
again,
Passed by the springs bright-eyed as
cranes,
And caught the distant plashing strain
Where quiet Araks' waters moved:
Here love and friends I've truly proved.
Men know that you are mine by birth:
My nest, my refuge, and my hearth,
My mother, native land, dear earth!
Sever soul and body?? Death
but can.
O
As mother to me, as child to you –
Such is the bond we ever knew:
I'd come back wherever I flew,
For you are my people, you—my nest,
My native birthplace ever blest.
When I'm away, your face unseen,
When times and forces intervene,
My hair is touched with silver sheen –
For months and years press age on me:
My land, don't blame your absentee.
Your mountain crests are topped with snow,
And cloud—a shawl of fleecy flow,
Your past is greater than we know.
Your age from everyone obscured,
And none may guess what you've endured.
Evil tongues spread defamation—
You lived through years of dark privation.
Still, generation to generation
Your fame lives on: a benison
To happy daughter, happy son.
Across your valleys long I stare,
On clear days full of lucent air;
My spirit broods on faces fair,
Thirsting for poetic tongue –
Creating verses makes me young.
Khazar the sea you border on
Where floats the legendary swan...
My day-dreams sweep me swiftly on
To.Mugan Lowland, on to Mi ell:
A long life road—half-done, I feel.
The mountain ranges, valley sweep,
Gladden the heart till it could weep. . .
Glimpse of startled fawn and chamois leap-
How much beauty on which to gazel –
Pastures cool and steppes ablaze.
Cross the mountains, over steppe-land,
Or through Astar, Lenkoran –
From African and Indian strand
Birds fly to visit, with us pause,
Freed from oppressive grasping
claws.
It's here the yellow lemons grow,
The heavy branches weighting
low.
Up in the mountains, white the snow
And deep from winter's opulence:
Since Creation—a true defense.
Lenkoran is a dazzle of flowers,
Refreshed by the springtime showers,
Clustering on beds and bowers,
My motherland's delightful daughter,
Bordered on by Khazar's water.
The golden wheat we grow- our bread,
Our cotton—wealth of snowy heads;
Squeeze the juice from grapes wine-red –
Before you breakfast, drain a cup
And feel your spirit surging up.
In Khazakh[1] mount, and give free rein,
Lean well over the horse's mane,
A sweating gallop then maintain:
On reaching mountain pastures high,
Look down on Gyok-Gyoll—mirrored sky.
A day that's free, a man that's free,
A spring like this invites a spree!
Seek out the shade of a plane tree
To spread a rug that's rainbow-spun—
And hail the country of the Sun!
Through Karabakh my spirit fares,
Wings over mountain here, now there;
From far away down the twilit air
Drifts the song of Khan of Shusha1—
Famed through all Caucasus and
Beautiful birthland! Your
meaning deep,
Cradle of Beauty that never sleeps,
Where songs of bard, inspired,
sweep.
The sun's embrace—your counterpart,
O land of poetry and art.
Spirit immortal, works immortal;
Nizami, Fisuli—are immortal!
On pen and paper, open the portals
Of your soul, record the flow:
The word once writ—through time will go.
Look at the sea near our
Its shore a bright-lit avenue,
The derricks roaring right in view;
They thunder where the steppe-land swales—
To light the mountains and the
vales.
The cool wind is a merry tease,
We bare our chests to the off-shore breeze.
Our heart,
Its light—our very strength adorning:
Our Morning Star—clear eye of morning.
Beautiful birthland! I was born
Together with freedom's dawn
Which crimson banners did adorn—
Life seemed one endless, joyous feast;
Gay songs and laughter never ceased.
Dear country—gate of the Ancient East.
1 Well-known folksinger.