ïðåâîä:
This matter doesn`t fit in novels.
It cannot be described in verse.
I did not ask you to a tango,
nor did I quench with wine our thirst.
With lips I did not whisper softly
that you are my ideal grand.
In unknown darkened discos
I did not hold your hand.
Back in the wet tobacco fields
a rainy hour brought us close,
and tones of two harmonious strings
between us shyly flowed.
And our fingers smeared with tar
were glued together in one hand.
And so: unfortunate and happy
together hitherto we stand.
Ivaylo Balabanov
îðèãèíàë:
Ðúêà
Òîâà íå ñòàâà çà ðîìàíè.
Íå ñå îïèñâà äàæå â ñòèõ.
Àç íà òàíãî íå òå ïîêàíèõ,
íè ÷àøà âèíî ñ òåá èçïèõ.
Íå ñúì øåïòÿë ñúñ óñòíè ìåêè,
÷å òè ñè ìîÿò èäåàë
è â ðàçíè òúìíè äèñêîòåêè
ðúêàòà òè íå ñúì äúðæàë.
Òîãàâà â ìîêðèòå òþòþíè
íè ñáðà åäèí äúæäîâåí ÷àñ.
È çâúí îò äâå ñúçâó÷íè ñòðóíè
ïðåìèíà ïëàõî ìåæäó íàñ.
À ïðúñòèòå íè êàòðàíëèâè
ñå ñëåïíàõà â åäíà ðúêà.
È òúé: íåùàñòíè è ùàñòëèâè
æèâååì ñ òåáå äîñåãà.
Èâàéëî Áàëàáàíîâ