Перевод на английский стихотворения Тимура Кибирова "Вход Господень в Иерусалим" http://www.stihi.ru/2013/05/02/1004
Look at their lord, he is great indeed,
Hero so real in word and in deed.
Leads the faithful, no fear, in lines
To the mortal combat, like forest of pines.
The crescent sward above his head shines.
The lightning horse rushes him along the signs.
And ours, alas, look my son, ours on top
Of a young donkey, clippety clop,
He rides to meet His death.
And as for those, their lord is greater indeed.
He gives to the disciples repose like mead,
Gives and relishes eternal repose
Among the world song and dance through his nose.
He is calm in his lotus pose,
Enlightened with the emptiness of the holy hollows.
And ours, alas, yes, alas, my son, ours on top
Of a young donkey, clippety clop,
He rides to meet His death.
And as for those, their lord is the greatest of all
He really rules the world’s ball.
All, this world, this age and this brain
Have been brought to his heel again.
They dance around his throne, being gay,
In a trance the mankind and may
Do you and me dance as well, I say.
And ours, alas, ours, don’t weep, on top
Of a young donkey, clippety clop,
He rides to meet His death,
To meet His terrible death,
To meet both my death and your death.
Don’t weep, my son, he won’t escape His breath,
No one will escape His risen breath.
There’s nowhere to hide.