Grass was pushing through earth by the graves, we’ve forgot.
We’ve forgot yesterday… We’ve forgot every word…
Only silence around us sings…
Whether You’re not alive? Whether You’re not a flash
Due this death of them gone, of them burned to the ash’s?
Whether your own heart is not spring?
Only here to breath by these graves and these stones,
Where composed I once those beautiful songs
Of the meeting that’s waiting for us…
Where at first into my waxen-colorless face
You had breathed with fresh air of the distant life’s grace,
Pushing through as the graveyard’s green grass…
С. Соловьеву
У забытых могил пробивалась трава.
Мы забыли вчера…И забыли слова…
И настала кругом тишина…
Этой смертью отшедших, сгоревших дотла,
Разве Ты не жива? Разве Ты не светла?
Разве сердце Твое - не весна?
Только здесь и дышать, у подножья могил,
Где когда-то я нежные песни сложил
О свиданьи, быть может, с Тобой.
Где впервые в мои восковые черты
Отдаленною жизнью повеяла Ты,
Пробиваясь могильной травой.
«Our so holly and beautiful craft / Exists from a dawn of the world… / With it — world’s enlighten’d without a light. / But still not a single bard said the word: / “There is no wisdom, and no the old, / And death is a tale, just twice told.”»
«And we’ve forgotten till doomsdays, / In the wild capital — our prison — / The towns, steppes, dawns and lakes / Of our great land, as if in treason. / In a bloody circle, day and night, / We’re pined by the abusive leisure… / And none to help us in our plight, / ...»
«Who knows what’s to be the famous! / With what price had he bought adeptness, / Legality or highest good / About all — so sly and sagest — / To jest, to be secretly mute, / And call a foot ‘a little foot’?»
«The river crawls along the valley breathless, / Windows spot the house on the hill... / As if in times of Catherine, the empress, / We wait for crop and go to masses still. / Having sufficed the two-day separation, / Along the golden fields rides our guest, / Kisses, upstairs, grandma’...»