Я попробовал перевод стихов на английский.
Александр Введенский, "Мне жалко, что я не зверь"
( https://www.culture.ru/poems/3189/mne-zhalko-chto-ya-ne-zver )
I'm sorry I'm not an animal
prancing across the blue scattering
telling myself to believe in it all
and to the other myself keep muttering
that soon to the forest we'll take our leave
to vainly inspect every vein on each leaf.
I'm sorry I'm not a star
lashing against the horizon's border
searching near and far
only to find itself, and shallow dirtwater
nobody ever hears a star squish,
their silence inspires the fish.
Another concern that I've grown to discover
I'm neither a wall rug nor a wallflower.
I'm sorry I'm not a roof tile
crumbling away piece by piece
Softly wet-pattered by rain while
perishing slowly in peace.
I loathe that I am the mortality
I'm sorry I'm not always right
so much better becomes in reality
a quantum of day a unit of night.
I'm sorry I'm not a bird of prey
flying above the mountains high
the one that conjured along the way
a man to tally the height of the sky.
Me and the wind, we flock
to this small dying rock.
I'm sorry I'm not an alcove
I loathe that I'm not the grief.
I'm sorry I'm not a grove
a sharp blade in every leaf.
I can't truly tell what's a minute
there's a certain complexity in it.
It hurts so much worse
when I'm truly exposed
Another concern that I've grown to discover
I'm neither a wall rug nor a wallflower.
I'm scared that I move
not like bugs bug about
but as baby carts wiggle
and spiderlings bout.
I'm scared that I move
not like a maggot at all
they dig holes in the earth
and know what it's worth.
Earth, what went wrong,
maggots ask in the cold
but the earth keeps dead bodies
and it never reveals what is right
what is wrong with the world
I can't truly tell what's a minute
there's a certain complexity in it.
I'm scared that I'm not a blade of grass,
I'm scared that I'm not candle flame.
I'm scared that I'm not a blade of flame,
but as the answer came,
the wind through the grove came to pass.
I'm scared that I'll see
two identical things
and miss all the different parts
and that each one only lives once.
I'm scared that I'll see
two identical things
playing the game
of looking the same
I see the world twisted,
and muffled lyres whisper,
I pull the tip of the word rack
and lift it up by its last letter
Now I put the rack right back
it is the dough of solid matter
I loathe that I am the mortality
I'm sorry I'm not always right
so much better becomes in reality
a quantum of day a unit of night.
Another concern that I've grown to discover
I'm neither a wall rug nor a wallflower.
And soon to the forest we'll take our leave
to vainly inspect every vein on each leaf,
I'm sorry the veins on the leaves will not form
unfamiliar words, words like chance,
life eternal, or basic form.
I'm sorry I'm not a bird of prey
flying above the mountains high
the one that conjured along the way
a man to tally the height of the sky.
I'm sorry it all will decay
to that I have nothing to say
Me and the wind, we flock
to this small dying rock.
As sprout the candles of grass
the wind through the grove comes to pass.
I'm sorry I'm not a seed,
I'm scared that I'm not verile
Maggots do what they always did
monotonous, slow and feral
I'm scared that I'm not the fame
I'm sorry I'm not the flame