Текст песни Голубь в Сантьяго - Глава 1

Pigeons in SANTIAGO
    The story in verse
         
                  Can I ask my book,
                  Do I wrote it?
                               Pablo Neruda

                1
Tired of the tortured body
It is easy in comparison with the fatigue of the soul,
but if the two will merge fatigue
in one - then cry and no power,
and I want to cry - especially when
so tired that you can not cry.
So once I'm tired ...
                      From what?
From life?
         Life above charges.
I'm tired of all that is in it
probably to the death rather than life looks.
Not once a person dies,
and for particles to - by other people's illnesses,
such as indifference, cruelty,
quietly kill him.
But woe to the man,
                 if
such catch diseases -
then he was not only the dead himself,
but, being dead, he kills.
In life there are many little deaths,
hiding in a telephone handset,
when so humiliating to call,
and you can not escape it - it is necessary.
In my book, damned notebook
there are a lot of special rooms,
that disgusting finger stuck in the drive,
as if the death of dial up number,
It seemed to open the heavy safe
and you know in advance - it void
and only someone's skull and bones.
That day I made a few calls,
advance meaningless but necessary.
There is in the word "need" outhouse odor,
where you will enter in something so vlipnesh,
so that the soles then not otskrebesh.
And I called, got involved in the voice,
in the sickly sadistic as honey,
where so many calls like flies,
Popa, legs sticking up -
then gurgling patter,
dough, pans fear
cowardly blowing bubbles.
Oh, the art of sneaking
izbegnovenya anything decides
only that it does not solve anything.
And every time I went down with nothing
Dumbbell powerless - up the phone.
I had to do was another call,
but the phone, like a toad of plastic,
such disgust aroused,
I could not ...
                Doplelsya to ottomans,
formation fell, unable to take off his shoes,
I forced to take a hand off the chair book
I opened it, but the letters blurred.
And it was not just anybody, and Pushkin.
Really immortal powerless
to protect the mortals?
                  Who will protect?
Surely the voice on the telephone
stronger Homer, Dante, Shakespeare,
and Pushkin?
          Oh, even if Pushkin
It does not help - it's a terrible sign!
And suicidal thoughts crept
me from the holes of the handset,
like the snake skull horse,
in their teeth concealing the death of Oleg.
I hate this idea in itself.
She was in the basque youth,
nice appease vanity:
"Suicide does not kill - glorify.
Make yourself to recognize suicide -
then you will appreciate all of them. "
(They are saving word ...
for those who are weak soul, and between
                                Incidentally,
himself for someone enters into the concept of the
under code comforting - "they").
Now the old woman began to flirt thought,
me being sometimes like a ghost
with stained yellow teeth,
hiding subtle poison snake,
mockingly grinning at me:
"Do not rock the boat, darling, do not go away ..."
I even got used to the old woman etoyu
and defeated her with his contempt,
and perhaps a habit of it.
There is not, perhaps, the man
I do not think about suicide.
I, however, knew the writer of songs,
packed as straw, joyous,
who once laughed
about one tragedy,
ending bullet bankruptcy:
"That idiot! ..
             I have never in my head
I did not come all this thought. "
For it does not come to mind.
I am in broad daylight,
                 both in the dark
lay, without seeing the letters, with an open book,
but I felt any forehead wrinkles
cool look colorless sticky eyes
silently expectant old