9. По произведению Джебрана Халиля Джебрана
Пророк
(The Prophet)
САЙГИТУ ГАСАНОВУ И ЕГО ИЗУМИТЕЛЬНЫМ РОДИТЕЛЯМ.
С ТЕПЛОМ И УВАЖЕНИЕМ.
О Жилищах
Расскажи, Человек, о жилищах, - молвил каменщик вдруг...
Дом ваш - Вы... продолжение Ваше...
Если строишь его, помни тех, кто далёк...
Кто запутался в сЕти далёких дорог...
Дом ваш... тоже не чужд путешествий...
Хоть стоит на отпущенном месте...
Он о рощах мечтает и лесе...
Быть бы зёрнышком... тем, что во свете
разбросает Его рука...
Но мечта далека... далека...
Страх тревожит...
И стены глухие отделяют ваш дом от полей...
Орфалеса дома свои тайны хранят...
Есть ли мир в ваших мыслях?
Покой?
В силу вера?
Красота, что к вершинам зовёт?
Или только уют, что приходит как гость,
но становится в доме хозяин...
Вас же куклами сделав, вертИт и вертИт...
Он смеется над вами...
Огонь заливая в груди...
Пыл гася...
Но... вы люди...
И сможете пышный уют
за пределами жизней оставить...
Не позволите вами править
до последнего вздоха...
Вы не сможете тайны оставить ему,
унесете с собой...
Непременно!
То, что в вас, не имеет предела...
Не знает границ...
Это песни сердец и ночное молчанье...
Рина Феликс
On Houses
Then a mason came forth and said, "Speak to us of Houses."
And he answered and said:
Build of your imaginings a bower in the wilderness ere you build a house within the city walls.
For even as you have home-comings in your twilight, so has the wanderer in you, the ever distant and alone.
Your house is your larger body.
It grows in the sun and sleeps in the stillness of the night; and it is not dreamless. Does not your house dream? And dreaming, leave the city for grove or hilltop?
Would that I could gather your houses into my hand, and like a sower scatter them in forest and meadow.
Would the valleys were your streets, and the green paths your alleys, that you might seek one another through vineyards, and come with the fragrance of the earth in your garments.
But these things are not yet to be.
In their fear your forefathers gathered you too near together. And that fear shall endure a little longer. A little longer shall your city walls separate your hearths from your fields.
And tell me, people of Orphalese, what have you in these houses? And what is it you guard with fastened doors?
Have you peace, the quiet urge that reveals your power?
Have you remembrances, the glimmering arches that span the summits of the mind?
Have you beauty, that leads the heart from things fashioned of wood and stone to the holy mountain?
Tell me, have you these in your houses?
Or have you only comfort, and the lust for comfort, that stealthy thing that enters the house a guest, and becomes a host, and then a master?
Ay, and it becomes a tamer, and with hook and scourge makes puppets of your larger desires.
Though its hands are silken, its heart is of iron.
It lulls you to sleep only to stand by your bed and jeer at the dignity of the flesh. It makes mock of your sound senses, and lays them in thistledown like fragile vessels.
Verily the lust for comfort murders the passion of the soul, and then walks grinning in the funeral.
But you, children of space, you restless in rest, you shall not be trapped nor tamed.
Your house shall be not an anchor but a mast.
It shall not be a glistening film that covers a wound, but an eyelid that guards the eye.
You shall not fold your wings that you may pass through doors, nor bend your heads that they strike not against a ceiling, nor fear to breathe lest walls should crack and fall down.
You shall not dwell in tombs made by the dead for the living.
And though of magnificence and splendour, your house shall not hold your secret nor shelter your longing.
For that which is boundless in you abides in the mansion of the sky, whose door is the morning mist, and whose windows are the songs and the silences of night.