Дълбокото ми възхищение към поезията на Рупчев е добре известно, както и флиртът ми с преводи на негови стихотворения. На днешния ден споделям един малко прашасал опит за превод на нещо любимо: На пътя, някъде.

Far,
in the sun webs faraway,
far.


The summer roams under the lowered eyelids,
the smoke lifts and scatters indecisively,
the face alters with each inhale,
the exhale is a kiss.
Here, here it is,
here.


She often jumps over to that nameless place,
to that summer cloister,
she roams invisible,
whose is the hill across
with those thousands of ravenous poppy heads,
who is that man at the top,
what was he expecting,
a silence grows in the weeds,
and grows until it grows weak,
and there she stops and stands,
and stands,
forever, insufficiently.


The girl is here,
traveling somewhere in the backseat,
her arm is lying on the front seat,
her nail polish gathers the light—
a poppy
amidst the coupe’s dusk,
the world shuffles,
it shuffles
and dusts itself with ash.
Who is she,
where is she going,
what has she done?
The door is open, and the man is gone.

//

П.П. Не успях да разгадая от кое стихотворение на Силвия Плат идва епиграфът, но да си призная, не съм се и ровила много. Ако някой се сеща, да подсказва.

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