Egy mondat a zsarnokságról
Gyula IllyésVersione russa di Valydemar | |
A SENTENCE ABOUT TIRRANY Where tyranny exists that tyranny exists not only in the barrel of the gun not only in the cells of a prison not just in the interrogation block or the small hours of the clock the guard's bark and his fists the tyranny exists not just in the billowing black fetor of the closing speech of the prosecutor, in the "justified use of force" the prisoners' dull morse not merely in the cool postscript of the expected verdict there's tyranny not just in the crisp military order to "Stand!" and the numb instruction "Fire!", the roll of the drum, in the last twitch of the corpse in the ditch not just in the door half open and the fearful omen, the whispered tremor of the secret rumour the hand that grips, the finger before the lips, tyranny is in place in the iron mask of the face in the clench of the jaw the wordless O of pain and its echo and the tears of silence-breeding fears, in the surprise of starting eyes tyranny supplies the standing ovation, the loud hurrahs and chanting of the crowd at the conference, the songs of tyranny, the breasts that tyranny infests, the loud unflagging noise of rhythmic clapping, at the opera, in trumpet cry, in the uproarious lie of grandiose statues, of colours, in galleries, in the frame and the wash, in the very brush, not just in the neat snarl of the midnight car as it waits outside the gates tyranny permeates all manners and all states, its omnipresent eyes more steady than those of old Nobodaddy, there's tyranny in the nursery in father's advice, in his guile, in your mother's smile in the child's answer to the perfect stranger; not just in wires with barbs and hooks not just in rows of books, but, worse than a barbed wire fence the slogans devoid of sense whose tyranny supplies the long goodbyes; the words of parting, the will-you-be-home-soon-darling? in the street manners, the meetings and half-hearted greetings, the handshakes and the alarm of the weak hand in your palm, he's there when your loved one's face turns suddenly to ice he accompanies you to tryst or rendezvous not just in the grilling but in the cooing and the billing, in your words of love he'll appear like a dead fly in your beer because even in dreams you're not free of his eternal company, in the nuptial bed, in your lust he covers you like dust because nothing may be caressed but that which he first blessed, it is him you cuddle up to and raise your loving cup to in your plate, in your glass he flows in your mouth and through your nose in frost, fog, out or in he creeps under your skin like an open vent through which you breathe the foul air of the ditch and it lingers like drains or a gas leak at the mains it's tyranny that dogs your inner monologues, nothing is your own once your dreams are known all is changed or lost, each star a border post light-strafed and mined; the stars are spies at window bars, the vast tent's every lamp lights a labour camp, come fever, come the bell it's tyranny sounds the knell, confessor is confession, he preaches, reads the lesson he's Church, House and Theatre the Inquisition; you blink your eyes, you stare you see him everywhere; like sickness or memory he keeps you company; trains rattling down the rail the clatter of the jail; in the mountains, by the coast you are his breathing host; lightning: the sudden noise of thunder, it's his voice in the bright electric dart, the skipping of the heart in moments of calm, chains of tedium, in rain that falls an age, the star-high prison-cage in snow that rises and waits like a cell, and isolates; your own dog's faithful eyes wear his look for disguise, his is the truth, the way so each succeeding day is his, each move you make you do it for his sake; like water, you both follow the course set and the hollow ring is closed; that phiz you see in the mirror is his escape is doomed to failure, you're both prisoner and gaoler; he has soaked, corroded in, he's deep beneath your skin in your kidney, in your fag, he's in your every rag, you think: his agile patter rules both mind and matter you look, but what you see is his, illusory, one match is all it takes and fire consumes the brake you having failed to snuff the head as it broke off; his watchfulness extends to factories, fields and friends and you no longer know or feel what it is to live, eat meat or bread to desire or love or spread your arms wide in appeal; it is the chain slaves wear that they themselves prepare; you eat but it's tyranny grows fat, his are your progeny in tyranny's domain you are the link in the chain, you stink of him through and through, the tyranny IS you; like moles in sunlight we crawl in pitch darkness, sprawl and fidget in the closet as if it were a desert, because where tyranny obtains everything is vain, the song itself though fine is false in every line, for he stands over you at your grave, and tells you who you were, your every molecule his to dispose and rule. | Дюла Иллеш СЛОВО О ТИРАНИИ В чем тирания? Во всем тирания, - Не только в ружейных стволах, Не только в тюремных глазках, Не только в камерах пыток, Не только в охраны криках, Рвущих покой ночи, Во всем тирания звучит! Не только в мрачных словах Громовой обвинительной речи, - В стуках, в тюремных стенах, В признаниях бесконечных. Не только в разящих словах Приговора судьи: "Виновен!" Во всем тирания, во всем, - Свободен ты, не свободен. В резкой команде: "Огонь!" В строю, в барабанном бое, И в том, как труп волокут В яму, что наготове. Не только тайком, в щели Слегка приоткрытой двери, В шепоте новостей, От страха слышных еле. И в пальце, прижатом к губам,- "Не двигайся! И молчи!" В чем тирания? Во всем тирания! Во всем тирания звучит! ................................ В чем тирания? В тебе - тирания! Каждый - звено в цепи, Смрад изнутри исходит, Ты сам тирания, - терпи! Ведь только из-за тебя Застынет ребенок упрямо, И любящая жена Уйдет на панель, как в яму! Ходим в кромешной тьме,- Кроты при солнечном свете, Ерзая ль на скамье, Мчась ли как вольный ветер, Все напрасно, везде, Где тирания правит, Даже эти слова От власти ее не избавят. И у могилы твоей, Заранее, как наважденье, Поведает, кем ты был, И прах твой - ей в подтвержденье! |