Every night, when the sun just commences to set,
I bid it farewell, while I yearn to be dead,
But again, as the cold, bitter day dawns anew,
Life will take hold of me and the pain will ensue!
I part with the good and the evil, in part,
Filled with hope and with dread that I may soon depart,
But the morning returns, and I stand where I stood,
And I still curse the evil and pine for the good.
Goodness, you’re wise, full of power and force,
For how many of us have you chosen this course,
So a mortal with daydreams, as the sun comes awake,
Has to long for your presence all day, with no break?..
___
Dolor Ante Lucem — Anguish preceding dawn (Lat.)
Каждый вечер, лишь только погаснет заря,
Я прощаюсь, желанием смерти горя,
И опять, на рассвете холодного дня,
Жизнь охватит меня и измучит меня!
Я прощаюсь и с добрым, прощаюсь и с злым,
И надежда и ужас разлуки с земным,
А наутро встречаюсь с землею опять,
Чтобы зло проклинать, о добре тосковать!..
Боже, боже, исполненный власти и сил,
Неужели же всем ты так жить положил,
Чтобы смертный, исполненный утренних грез,
О тебе тоскованье без отдыха нес?..
___
Dolor ante lucem — Предрассветная тоска (лат.).
«Careful, puss, there’s an owl / embroidered on the chair. / Grey puss, don’t growl — / or Grandpa will hear. / The candle’s gone out; / there are mice on the stair. / I’m afraid of the owl. / Nanny, who put it there?»
«Everything’s changed, nothing has changed / in the strange chill, strange chill of dawn. / I’ve dreamed many dreams over the years / and now I awake – with the years all gone. Here we go, here I stand in an autumn field / (changed, unchanged, I don’t understand) — / as if I’ve...»
«O Muse of Weeping... / — M. Tsvetaeva I have turned aside from everything, / From the whole earthly store. / The spirit and guardian of this place / is an old tree-stump in water. We are brief guests of the earth, as it were, / And life is a habit we put on. / On paths of air I seem ...»
«It’s good that Russia has no Tsar, / it’s good that Russia’s just a dream, / it’s good that God has disappeared, that nothing’s real, except the stars / in icy skies, the yellow gleam / of dawn, the unrelenting years. It’s good that people don’t exist, / that nothingness is...»