• Язык:
    Испанский (Español)

El teléfono

Una voz femenina en el teléfono
Se escucha inesperada y audaz.
Cuánta dulce armonía hay
En esa voz sin cuerpo

La Suerte en su transcurrir benévolo
No siempre pasa de largo:
El sonido del laúd del serafín
Es como tu voz en el teléfono.

Перевод стихотворения Николая Гумилёва «Телефон» на испанский язык.


Неожиданный и смелый
Женский голос в телефоне, —
Сколько сладостных гармоний
В этом голосе без тела!

Счастье, шаг твой благосклонный
Не всегда проходит мимо:
Звонче лютни серафима
Ты и в трубке телефонной!

Другие переводы:

  • Венгерский
    Иштван Бака
  • Словацкий
    Ян Квапил
  • Украинский
    Максим Стриха

А вот еще:

The Giraffe

Today I can tell that your gaze is especially sad / And your arms are especially thin as they clasp round your knee. / Listen, I’ll tell you how far, far away, on the shores of Lake Chad, / An exquisite giraffe wanders free. / / He has been created so languid and graceful and slim /...


I shut Homer and sat by the bay window glass. / On my lips the last word of the Iliad fluttered. / The night watchman’s long shadow unhurriedly passed, / And above something - lamplight or moonlight - bright sputtered. / / So, so often I’d throw down challenging looks / And ...

The Magic Fiddle

My dear boy, you are so happy, ever merry, bright and smiling, / Do not ask for this sweet fortune that has poisoned worlds away. / You don’t know, you don’t know, you don’t know what is this violin, / What dark horrors lie in store for one who dares begin to play! / / I...

The Prophets

There are some prophets still among us, / Although the altars now are gone. / Their eyes are deep and they are lustrous / With flaming future of the dawn. / / But victor’s call is alienating, / Unfathomed words on them bear down, / They’re pale, and find intimidating / O...


Addis Ababa, city of roses. / Near the bank of transparent streams, / No earthly devas brought you here, / A diamond, amidst gloomy gorges. / / Armidin garden ... There a pilgrim / Keeps his oath of obscure love / (Mind, we all bow before him), / And the roses cloy, the roses red. ...

The joyful brotherhood

In eastern Russia are nights when the full moon distils strange perfume from the rank grasses; when the - God knows what - toads and perhaps night birds cry in weird, wailing tones; when the shadows of the trees stir like dying giants. If at the same time a millstream rumbles noisily past and lovers...