Как заяц, по треку бегущий,
Жил где-то один человек,
Безропотно крест свой несущий,
Судьбе покорившись навек.
Но дума одна, донимая,
Ходила за ним, словно тень:
Зачем я, как загнанный заяц,
По кругу верчусь каждый день?
Однажды он все же решился,
Себя убедил: я смогу,
И с болью, но остановился
На полном привычном бегу.
И он оказался в пустыне,
На север, юг, запад, восток
Что взглядом своим не окинешь,
Повсюду он был одинок.
И с радостью он засмеялся,
И, небу грозя кулаком,
Кричал: - Я не загнанный заяц,
Не буду вертеться волчком!
Но вдруг руки-ноги отпали,
Разжались его кулаки,
Собак необузданных стаи
Разгрызли его на куски.
И он осознал, умирая,
Он – заяц, судьба его – трек,
А счастлива хищная стая,
Но в ней не живет человек.
Ted Hughes. Existential Song
Once upon a time
There was a person
Running for his life.
This was his fate.
It was a hard fate.
But Fate is Fate.
He had to keep running.
He began to wonder about Fate
And running for dear life.
Who? Why?
And was he nothing
But some dummy hare on a racetrack?
At last he made up his mind.
He was nobody's fool.
It would take guts
But yes he could do it.
Yes yes he could stop.
Agony! Agony
Was the wrenching
Of himself from his running.
Vast! And sudden
The stillness
In the empty middle of the desert.
There he stood – stopped.
And since he couldn't see anybody
To North or to West or to East or to South
He raised his fists
Laughing in awful joy
And shook them at the Universe
And his fists fell off
And his arms fell off
He staggered and his legs fell off
It was too late for him to realize
That this was the dogs tearing him to pieces
That he was, in fact, nothing
But a dummy hare on a racetrack
And life was being lived only by the dog.