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.
«But there’re, somewhere, the simple life and light, / Warm, gay and absolutely clear… / There, speaks a neighbor through the fences, light, / With a sweet girl, and only bees can hear — / The gentlest talking of this kind. But here we live — the solemn ones and toilsome — / And...»
«(From the "Middle Night Poems") Which a sonata will you be / Hidden by me in — with a care? / How uneasily, for me / Will call you, utterly unfair / Because so close and so good / You were for me, tho’ for a moment… / Your dream — dissolving in a solvent, / Where death —...»
«We know what is now on History’s scales, / What is, in the world, going now. / The hour of courage shew our clock’s hands. / Our courage will not bend its brow. / None fears to die under the bullet’s siege, / None bitters to lose one’s home here, — / And we will preserve you, O...»
«Do not cry about me, Mother, seeing me in the grave. I This greatist hour was hallowed and thandered / By angel's choirs; fire melted sky. / He asked his Father:"Why am I abandoned...?" / And told his Mother: "Mother, do not cry..." II Magdalena struggled, cried and moaned. / Piter san...»