Èçêóñòâîòî äà ãóáèø íå å òðóäíî çà îâëàäÿâàíå.
Òîëêîâà ìíîãî íåùà èçãëåæäàò ïðåäîïðåäåëåíè
äà áúäàò çàãóáåíè, ÷å êîãàòî ãè çàãóáèø íå å íåùàñòèå.
Ãóáè ïî íåùî âñåêè äåí.
Ñâèêíè ñ òðåâîãàòà äà ãóáèø êëþ÷îâåòå ñè
èëè áåçíàäåæäíî äà çàãóáèø âðåìå.
Èçêóñòâîòî äà ãóáèø íå å òðóäíî çà îâëàäÿâàíå
Ñëåä òîâà... - óïðàæíÿâàé ãóáåíåòî...
ïî-íàòàòúê è âñå ïî-áúðçî...
ìåñòà è èìåíà, äî êîèòî ñè èñêàë äà ñòèãíåø.
Íèòî åäíà îò òåçè çàãóáè íÿìà äà òè äîíåñå íåùàñòèå.
Çàãóáèõ ÷àñîâíèêà íà ìàéêà ñè...
È åòî! - ìîÿò ïîñëåäåí (èëè ïðåäïîñëåäåí) äîì ñè çàìèíà.
Èçêóñòâîòî äà ãóáèø íå å òðóäíî çà îâëàäÿâàíå
Èçãóáèõ àç äâà ïðåêðàñíè ãðàäà...
Íÿêîëêî öàðñòâà, êîèòî ïðèòåæàâàõ...
äâå ðåêè...
öÿë êîíòèíåíò...
Äà, ëèïñâàò ìè, íî íå áå òîâà íåùàñòèå.
Äîðè òåá äà çàãóáÿ -
øåãîâèòèÿò òè ãëàñ,
ëþáèìèòå òè æåñòîâå...
Àç ïàê íå áèõ èçëúãàëà.
Çàùîòî, ÿâíî å, ÷å
èçêóñòâîòî äà ãóáèø íå å òðóäíî çà îâëàäÿâàíå
Ìàêàð è äà èçãëåæäà êàòî
(Íàïèøè ãî!)
... êàòî íåùàñòèå
Îðèãèíàëúò:
"One Art"
The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.
--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
Elizabeth Bishop