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.
«Across the dirty sky, words etched with rays / of greenish light: “Chocolate and Cocoa.” / And cars, like cats with trampled tails, / wail frantically: “Meow! Meow!” Black trees, like scraggly brooms, / have swept the rouged stars from the sky, / and red-haired, loud-mouthed trams...»
«Over fish, under stars, / the little boat races — / three Greeks are aboard, / smuggling goods to Odessa. / Jibing and tacking, / skipping over the waters, / are Yanaki, Stavraki, / and Papa Satyros. / The wind — how it whoops! / How it whistles right past — / sets the nail...»
«And Pushkin crumples into blueish brittle / Snow’s blanket. And he knows this is the end… / The cruel bullet’s sting is true and it’ll / Take poet’s lifeblood with its flighted trend. / The bloodied shirt… The fur cape now abandoned. / The sledge’s runners’ rattles seem to ...»
«He lifeless fell. And by my hand / A savage courage it was leading. / A needle’s useless – understand – / To staunch a swordsman’s wounded bleeding. / My debt’s repaid. No wonder now / I find my conscience reminisces / About the purest love and how / For blood blood’s paid ...»