You lived a lot, and I sang more...
You bore affliction, life you tested,
Your unseen spirit t’wards me tore,
The ocean roared, as billow crested...
The chains already bind your soul;
The storm assails it with its swirling;
But mine is free: its dusty scroll
Is sky-blown by tempestuous hurling.
I’ve felt for ages, my dear friend,
Your life with mine will come together...
But now my heart’s in falling trend
And now its beating stops for ever!
We’ll stand at last with feet on ground,
As vapour round us presses, fetid...
Your rest with me will then be found
And mine with you, as friends indebted!
Н. Гуну
Ты много жил, я больше пел...
Ты испытал и жизнь и горе,
Ко мне незримый дух слетел,
Открывший полных звуков море...
Твоя душа уже в цепях;
Её коснулись вихрь и бури;
Моя — вольна: так тонкий прах
По ветру носится в лазури.
Мой друг, я чувствую давно,
Что скоро жизнь меня коснется...
Но сердце в землю снесено
И никогда не встрепенется!
Когда устанем на пути,
И нас покроет смрад туманный,
Ты отдохнуть ко мне приди,
А я — к тебе, мой друг желанный!
«1. The August day was slowly melting / Into the golden afternoon dust. / A few rattling trams, / And people passing. Absent-mindedly, as if without a goal, / I took a quiet lane. / And — I remember — the soft pealing / Of bells. I envision your pose / I decide everything on the...»
«4. War, war! — burn incense before the icons! / And the clatter of spurs. / But the Tsar's proclamations do not concern me, / Neither do the poeople's quarrels. I seem on a fraiyed tightrope / I — a tiny dancer. / I — the shadow of someone's shadow. / I — a sleepwalker / B...»
«6. Falling leaves over your grave, / And the smell of winter. / Listen to the dead, listen, my dear: / You are still mine. Laughing! — In the blessed road cloak! / Moon high. / My - so surely and so unalterably, / Like this hand. Again with a bundle I walk up early in the morning / ...»
«I saw you three times, / But we cannot stay apart. / — After your first sentence / My heart burned through! I feel you in this darkness, / Like the trembling of young leaves. / You - just a portrait in an album — / And I do not know who you are. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ...»