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L`Ouvrier

Рабочий

Il est devant son fourneau qui brule.
C'est un homme vieillissant, petit.
Son regard calme a l'air humble
Parce qu'il cligne ses yeux rougis.

Tous ses camarades sont endormis.
Mais lui ne dort pas encore.
Il est occupe a fondre la balle
Qui me separera de la vie.

Il a fini ; ses yeux sont animes.
Il peut rentrer. La lune brille.
Chez lui, dans le grand lit,
L'attend sa femme, somnolente et moite.

La balle qu'il a coulee sifflera
Par-dessus l'ecume de la Dvina grise,
La balle qu'il a coule'e trouvera
Ma poitrine qu'elle cherchait.

Je tomberai, touche a mort,
Je reverrai defiler mon passe,
Mon sang coulera a flots
Sur l'herbe seche, poussie'reuse, pietinee.

Dieu alors paiera le prix
De ma vie breve et amere.
En blouse grisatre, vieillissant,
Un petit homme a fait cela


Другие переводы:

  • Английский
    Дон Магер
    The Workman
  • Бартон Раффел, Алла Бураго
    A Workman
  • Болгарский
    Бойко Ламбовски
    Работник
  • Испанский
    Ксения Дьяконова, Хосе Матео
    El obrero
  • Немецкий
    Адриан Ваннер
    Der Arbeiter
  • Ирмгард Вилле
    Der Arbeiter
  • Польский
    Збигнев Дмитроча
    Robotnik
  • Сербский
    Томислав Шиовац
    Радник
  • Чешский
    Мария Марчанова
    Dělník

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