Flaming signs of the mystery grow
On the wall, that is solid and grim,
And the tulips of purple and gold
All the night hang o’er me in my dream.
I hide self in the caves’ dark and coldness,
Loose remembrance of miracles, past,
At a sunrise, the vast bluish monsters
Look at me from the heaven’s bright glass.
I run back to the past’s early edges;
Full of fear, I close my eyes,
On the cooling book’s whitening pages,
Gold of maiden’s plait fatally lies.
The sky’s firmament’s lower here
The black dream strongly squeezes my breast.
My life’s fatal end’s utterly near —
And a war and a fire come next.
Разгораются тайные знаки
На глухой, непробудной стене
Золотые и красные маки
Надо мной тяготеют во сне
Укрываюсь в ночные пещеры
И не помню суровых чудес.
На заре — голубые химеры
Смотрят в зеркале ярких небес.
Убегаю в прошедшие миги,
Закрываю от страха глаза,
На листах холодеющей книги —
Золотая девичья коса.
Надо мной небосвод уже низок,
Черный сон тяготеет в груди.
Мой конец предначертанный близок,
И война, и пожар — впереди.
«1. / He had six fingers, my father. Across the stretch of canvas, / Bruni tutored the soft trail of his brush. / Where the Academy sphinxes have stared each other out, he would / dash in a summer jacket across the frozen Neva. / He returned to Lithuania, the cheerf...»
«My master — he disliked me from the start. / He never knew me, never saw or heard me, / but all the same he feared me like the plague / and hated me with all his dreary heart. / When I bowed my head before him, / it seemed to him I hid a smile. / When he made me cry, he thought / my ...»
«June would be clammy, January crisp; / and concrete solid, sand unstable. / For there was order. Real order. People got up and went to work. / And then they watched The Happy FeIlas / at cinemas. For there was order. In pedigrees and in parades, / political police, and apparatus, / eve...»
«All rules are incorrect, / all laws remain perverse, / until they’re firmly set / in well wrought lines of verse. An age or era will / be merely a stretch of time / without a meaning until / it’s glorified in rhyme. Until the poet’s "Yes!", / entrusted by his pen / to print, ...»