The Newest Song of Cats

(Federico Garcia Lorca. Russian translation translated into English.
Poetic exercise).
 
Domestic Don Mephisto my cat – and lazy bones.
He plays with morning sunlight - and tries the lion’s tones.
He is polite and playful - with manners of signor. 
He's an expert in music – and nagging connoisseur:
Beethoven is not honored. But Debussy – charmant!
He often walks at night (a real mйlomane!)
Along the piano-keys – amused with his decision -
As if he was in Paris - and had artistic vision.
His last reincarnation – the harmony creator -
Was chasing mice in basements of the Philharmonic Theatre.
He understands the value and charming innovation
Of "cat’s accords" in power - and merits his creation.
I share his devotion to tunes of moons and winds.
This attitude, however, is strange for human beings.
No matter – thanks for that!
They value cats in France. Verlaine was just a cat.
How gently he was praising his moon - its shade and shine.
He suffered much from flees, he drew himself in wine.
He was a homeless loafer, though teaser and pretender –
A sort of the outsider, refusing to surrender…
French people adore cats – the way we like bull fights,
The way Chinese likes dragons, and Russians – their nights.
The cats are not from here – they are from other worlds.
They still keep their secrets and magi of the gods.
They teach us life, however.  In their depthless eyes
We see the rhythm of love – with high and low tides, -
The rhythm of life where words are gaining their shapes
And yin and yang are felt in flowers, stars and grapes.
He squints. His soul in green reveals some gloomy spots.
It shows us for a while the shades of Judas goats.
Cats’ souls are pre-historic, cats’ souls are androgynes -
With languor feminine and fury of primate
These souls are full of innocence – and full of mortal sins,
Forever young and old – and this is their fate.
My cat, Philip of Spain, (a truly king) despises
Devotion of the dogs, lick-spitting of the mice,
He takes all gifts as granted – regardless of the size.
All stupid human actions are nothing in his eyes.
I value cats as Teachers of Sadness. Like inspectors 
They know all the troubles and faults of time they live in.
At first we played with toys of progress. But forgive me,         
We now play with guns – becoming gun-collectors.
We sow seeds of grief - and harvest bigger sorrow.
We fail in finding truth - and drag ouselves like weeds.
All our planted seeds will bring its fruit tomorrow.
And cats – they know all about peasants’ needs.
Cats are nocturnal birds. According to Creator
They should have had their pairs of somber wings behind
Like those from inferno, who Saint Ascetics later
Were fighting with in order to save their souls and mind.
An angry cat is fearful like real Schopenhauer –
With whiskers blown up and traits of demon-rascal.
He's normally a snob, but calm and easy-going,
And all the cats are sure: a Man is God's fiasco,
The death is inevitable. Whenever comes an end -
There is no use to wait for it – let’s have sunbath instead!
My cat, my sleeping beauty, is not enthusiastic
To think… The clock is singing a gentle cradle-song.
He does not want to care for thoughts ecclesiastic,
For Solomonic Grieves, for all the right and wrong.   
Just sleep, my lazy fellow. My sorrows are just nothing.
I’ve left it all behind – as if that was the goal. 
No matter I am sad – and just the piano’s laughing
Uncovering its teeth – the grin of ice and coal. 
Remember, happy sleeper, your hungry lonely brothers
Who roam the world around, where slingshots are well-aimed.
Their life is short. They die as if they were Socrates -
Forgiving their killers – who hardly feel ashamed…
So, do not think of ado, and stay away from that –
And just enjoy your sunbath, my blessed and lazy cat!