Monolog Of An Artist, Англ пер. стиха Э. Рязанова

Monolog Of An "Artist"

Life’s journey is a practice of summation:
a sum of years, moments, weeks, and days.
I suddenly perceived: art is my destination,
I draw without end the portrait with your face.

For my improvisations and artwork
there is no need, in general, for draft.
It, possibly, is needed for some folk,
but I can do without in my craft.

I’m daubing on a life-size mold:
a tear smothered your abyssal glance,
light touch – eyes flush like tainted gold,
they suffered hell, but stood their stance.

I’ve shown your wrinkles, had a chance
to add some whiteness to your wavy brown hair.
I love the lifelike color of this sketch,
no need to change it, and I wouldn’t even dare.

I have re-painted – bitter as it were! – your smile,
two strokes - and you don’t look to be a cutie.
It happened on its own; it was achieved
without brushes and the pencils for this duty.

We hurt our dearest recklessly, not thinking,
extinguish their inner warmth and light.
It happened by itself, without inkling,
but current portrait still is my delight…