Удалить старый жж.... не удалять старый жж... непонятно. Сейчас даже фейсбук уже немножко устарел как главная площадка, но всё равно незаменим как телефонный справочник.
Вот вам пока новый перевод на английский.
Mom’s in the country, don’t stay up late, not doing the chores is fine.
School is soon over, and I am eight. In August, I will be nine.
Nine this August, now seven o’clock, the sky is fair and light,
Sun is drawing lines through my locks, colors my hair white.
Holding last dream at an arm’s length, letting it get away.
There is this boy Vicky, he lives on tenth, going to swim today.
Quick eyes and feet, I cannot be late, what if they forget and run?
Vicky is old, he is in fourth grade, almost a grown man.
Shorts and a t-shirt, no shoes, alive, an apple for lunch will do.
Vicky swims and knows how to dive, he promised to teach me too.
Our path to the river is walked a lot, burnt, and trampled flat.
Running on sand that is getting hot, but does not hurt me yet.
Such a hot summer, each day the same, every leaf thirsty, bleak.
Later we play, I will choose the game, it will be hide-and-seek.
Vicky is real, but he reminds of boys in the books I read,
I will be seeker, the one who finds, hope you are fine with that.
The week is over, then summer, fall, school, understand, explain.
I close my eyes and turn to the wall. One hundred. Ninety-nine.
Mom’s in the country. I have a bike. Tomorrow, exams to pass.
My notes are scattered, each page alike, Sun leaks through the window glass.
I had a night with no sleep at all, breathing the summer air.
In August, I am a college girl. Today, neither here nor there.
Some cheese on a knife and a slice of bread, a simple and tasteless snack.
Vicky is in college, three years ahead, and he does not love me back.
He talks to professors, he knows it all, expects to get very far.
On top of that, witty, black-browed and tall, he looks like a movie star.
He writes to my sister, his words refined, he flatters her every whim.
Although I am quicker of feet and mind, I outthink her and outswim.
But she has a kinder and simpler soul, I am angry where she is light.
We climb on the porch. I don’t talk at all. We laugh. We go fly a kite.
I think they are going to leave tonight; I offer to see them off.
The river is shallow, the moon is bright. They go, I have had enough.
Seventy-seven, seventy-six, I weep to the evening air.
I am the finder, the one who seeks. Go hide now, I do not care.
Mom’s in the country. Today we rest. Sleepy, hungover sloth.
A cat has settled over my chest. Sun beams on the tablecloth.
Somebody, give me a cup, I pray. Coffee will make me well.
What did I even do yesterday? Better that you don’t tell.
Let this stay secret, a little thing, a harmless sin or less.
We were drunk, flew on weightless wings, warmed by the brothers’ breath.
Talked ourselves coarse, smoked in dizzy fog, look at the mess we made.
You are my kin, we are tribe, a flock. Flying and unafraid.
Is there money that we can spend? Breakfast comes when we call.
Look, I am holding the rainbow, friends. Listen, I love you all.
Morning is festive with sunny lace. Our small room is dim.
We could do nothing for two long days. We could clean up, go swim.
Victor, I found you after all. Your shaggy self is mine.
I turn around and watch the wall. Thirty-one. Twenty-nine.
Mom’s on a photo. Key turns in a lock. Travelling bags are packed.
Summer is starting at eight o’clock. Sun shines through the sleepy park.
Our river flows through the distant days. Moscow wakes outside.
Victor lives in the United States. There is nowhere to hide.
I ate the apple; the core is gone. I am late for the Nice train.
I count down from one hundred one. At one, time begins again.
I live it, fight it, make jokes and tease. A clown, a circus mime.
I whisper, dreamily, “twenty, please”. “Forty”, responds the time.
At forty, some of my hair is grey, I listen when doctors speak.
Alone at twenty, sky has no weight, the game will be hide-and-seek.
My scattered thoughts, undefeated pride, not speaking in the past tense.
Someone will wait for me outside; someone lives on the tenth.
Four, three, two, one. Ready or not. So help me God Above.
Ten – I am finishing the fourth grade, not doing the chores is fine,
Quick eyes and feet, I cannot be late. In August, I will be nine.
Eight, every summer is bright and hot. Melting in Sun and love.