Translation for "исток реки" to english

Исток реки

noun

• head
• springhead
• fountain

Translation examples

head noun

У истока реки, в повозке.
At the head of the arroyo, in the wagon.

Я похоронил их всех в роще плакучих ив у истока реки, где каждое место предначертано свыше.
I buried them all in the grove of weeping willows at the head of the river, each place marked in order.

В конце концов им удалось оторваться от разгневанных преследователей, и они направились через джунгли к истоку реки, которая вывела бы их к морю иным маршрутом, так как Нинака хотел по возможности скорее распорядиться содержимым сундука с помощью мошенника малайца, который проживал в Гунунг Теборе, где вел успешную торговлю с пиратами.
Finally, however, they succeeded in eluding the angry enemy, and took up their march through the interior for the head of a river which would lead them to the sea by another route, it being Ninaka's intention to dispose of the contents of the chest as quickly as possible through the assistance of a rascally Malay who dwelt at Gunung Tebor, where he carried on a thriving trade with pirates.

Справил свадьбу своего сына с Люси, «вице-королевой моря», и пышное это торжество почтили своим присутствием такие израильские лидеры, как Ицхак Шамир и Шимон Перес, и сотни приглашенных целовали Овадию Хазама, а он, в голубом шелковом костюме, с белоснежным треугольничком платка в нагрудном кармане, обнимал и с силой прижимал к груди каждого из своих гостей — и мужчин, и женщин, и членов Кнесета, и торговцев земельными участками, и артистов, и журналистов местных изданий… Обнимал с волнением и слезами, громко шутил, заставлял всех еще и еще раз попробовать — хотя бы попробовать! — приготовленные для свадьбы яства и выпить в его честь еще по рюмке… А теперь он лежит там, во влажной темноте, во втором терапевтическом отделении больницы «Ихилов», на пропитанных кровью и мочой простынях, между двумя другими умирающими. Немного застывшей крови запеклось у ноздрей и в уголках губ, с натужным страдальческим свистом он вдыхает кислород, грудь его поднимается и опускается, и в сумерках, обволакивающих его сознание после укола морфия, он помнит-не-помнит множество рук, которые гладили его голову, плечи, грудь. Женщину, которая плакала, или женщин? И внезапно перед его закрытыми глазами возникают пейзажи: истоки реки Иордан, все залито сиянием, стаи птиц, тенистая эвкалиптовая роща между двумя речками. Деревья в роще громадные, они ближе к царству неодушевленных предметов, чем к растительному миру.
True, he is apparently not a very nice man, and I was sorry to learn that at the end of the evening he dismissed you rather rudely, but it is not correct to say of him that ‘he is a stranger to life’: for some years he has been living alone in a ground-floor flat in Adam Ha-Cohen Street, he has been widowed twice, he teaches in the Kibbutz College, you probably didn’t know that his only daughter Aya walked out on him when she was only sixteen and a half, changed her name to Jocelyn, hung around in New York for two years, posed nude for magazines, then got religion and married a settler from Elon Moreh, and now, for the past two to three weeks, Mr Bar-Orian has been torturing himself to decide whether to keep to his boycott or whether to close his eyes to his conscience and his principles and agree, just this once, and certainly not to create a precedent, to cross the Green Line into the Occupied Territories to visit his settler daughter and hold his baby settler grandson in his arms for the first time. Or take Ovadya Hazzam, for example, Hazzam from Isratex, the man who won the lottery, got divorced, had a wild time, lent money left and right to all comers, cruised around town in a blue Buick, contributed to collections for new Torah scrolls, financed a pirate religious radio station out of his own pocket, spent money like water on good causes and also on divorcees from Russia, bought land in the Territories, rushed into politics, moved house six times in two years, married his elder son to Lucy, runner-up in the Queen of the Waves contest, Yitzhak Shamir and Shimon Peres both attended the glittering wedding, the hundreds of guests kissed him and he, in a blue silk suit with a triangle of white handkerchief in his breast pocket, kissed and hugged every one of them, men and women, members of the Knesset, land dealers, artists, journalists, he hugged and kissed the lot of them, with tears of emotion, joked and laughed, made them all taste – just taste – another piece of cake, have another drink, and now he is lying on a sweaty bed in the damp darkness of the hospital ward, between two other dying men, his bedclothes soaked in urine, with bits of dried blood clinging to his nostrils and the corners of his mouth, with a painful wheezing sound he breathes through an oxygen mask that covers his nose and mouth, and as his chest rises and falls he half remembers in his morphine-induced haze lots of hands stroking his head, shoulders and chest, a woman or women weeping, and closing his eyes he can suddenly see the Sources of the Jordan: a sunbathed landscape with choirs of birds and a shady eucalyptus grove between two streams. The trees are massive, and almost belong to the realm of the inanimate.