My sweet friend, and in this quiet home,
Beats a fever me, the same.
I can’t find a place in quiet home
By its always peaceful flame!
Voices sing, a blizzard calls, I hear,
Comfort is my cross...
E’en behind your shoulders, oh my dear,
Someone’s eyes wait for me close!
There, behind your shoulders so quiet,
The wings’ tremble I feel,
Pierces me with his look of a fire
The storms’ angel — Israfil!
Милый друг, и в этом тихом доме
Лихорадка бьёт меня.
Не найти мне места в тихом доме
Возле мирного огня!
Голоса поют, взывает вьюга,
Страшен мне уют…
Даже за плечом твоим, подруга,
Чьи-то очи стерегут!
За твоими тихими плечами
Слышу трепет крыл…
Бьёт в меня светящими очами
Ангел бури — Азраил!
«Heaviness, tenderness — sisters — your marks are the same. / The wasps and the honey bees suck at the heavy rose. / Man dies, heat drains from the once warm sand, / and on a black bier they carry off yesterday's sun. Oh, you tender nets and you heavy honeycombs, / Easier to lift a ston...»
«Take from my palms some sun to bring you joy / and take a little honey — so the bees / of cold Persephone commanded us. No loosing of the boat that is not moored, / no hearing of the shadow shod in fur, / no overcoming fear in life's dense wood. And kisses are all that's left us now, / ...»
«People? What do I care about people? / A peasant leading a bull; / A market woman, squatting — all / Breasts and legs, no waist, a shawl. And nature? Here's nature for you — / Rain and cold, or heat. / And tedium in all seasons, / Like the buzzing of a gnat. Of course, there are di...»
«If you want to live, then live... / Even if it means swinging a pick, Shoveling coal, or working with metal, / Or hauling barges on the mighty river, / With a "heave away!" ... / It's all dream stuff. / No one needs these arms of ...»