What am I for, me, just a grain?
I'm living toiling hard with care,
For happiness I spend my life in vain,
I'm never pleased, weep on in my despair!
What do I seek? Do I want more?
Where is my place? What am I for?
There is a kin who die to seize
All proper answers in a blink.
But do I care?! Let them think
Of all as strictly as they please.
Unlearned /...nit/ I am to remain,
There's just a bit I need to know.
Like a blind man I am to go
By little steps my broken lane.
In laugh I'll join a merry-maker;
With beautiful I will be taken.
With the unhappy — cry with heart,
I'll search no more for what's my part...
Что, крошка мелкая, я значу?
Живу, заботливо тружусь,
В желанье счастья время трачу
И, вечно недовольный, плачу!
Чего ж ищу? к чему стремлюсь?
В какой стране, на что гожусь?
Есть люди: до смерти желают
Вопросы эти разгадать.
Но что до них! Пусть как хотят
О всём серьёзно рассуждают.
Я недоросль, я не мудрец,
И мне нужнее знать немного;
Шероховатою дорогой
Иду шажком я, как слепец;
С смешным сойдусь ли — посмеюсь;
С прекрасным встречусь — им пленюсь;
С несчастным от души поплачу,
И не стараюсь знать — что значу.
«He believed in a golden radiance, / And he died from the arrows of the sun. / He measured centuries with his thinking, / But could not live his life — this one. Don’t laugh at the dead poet: / But come, bring him a wreath. / On the cross — winter, summer / There bangs my porcelai...»
«Enough: do not wait, do not hope. / Disperse, my poor people, my race! / O torturous years without hope, / Break up, disappear into space! Long centuries of serfdom and need. / O Motherland, allow me then / Tears for your expanses. I grieve / For your dark empty spaces again: — Down ...»
«Insanity — and good reason, / Disgrace — and honor, / All, that brings on thoughtfulness, / Is spilling over — In me. — All the penal passions / Become as one! — / All images wage war inside / This hair of mine! The lover's whisper, all around / By rote I know, / Experi...»
«My ancestor was a rider, / A thief, man with violin. / Is this not why my taste wanders / And hair smells of wind? Does not he steal from a car, / Tan, apricots with my hand, / The author of my passionate fate, / Hook-nosed and curly-haired. Twirling between teeth a wild rose / He wo...»