to Chulkov
Don't build a house by a drowned current
Where life is bustling under a strain;
Believe me, the end is always recurrent,
It's incomprehensible, solemn and plain.
Like a bedtime story your fate is quiet;
Lonely heart, you had better give in and be blessed.
Go in silence to Vespers, esteemed and desired,
And pray wherever it suits you best.
May your visitor be as light as an angel;
Receive him as if he were from your dream
Keep mum so that no one might notice the stranger
that sat on a bench and flashed by like a gleam.
The meaning of silence will be unknown,
So will the quiet and simple thought.
Yes. She will come with the glare of dawn
And kiss on the lips through nobody"s fault.
Г. Чулкову
Не строй жилищ у речных излучин,
Где шумной жизни заметен рост.
Поверь, конец всегда однозвучен,
Никому не понятен и торжественно прост.
Твоя участь тиха, как рассказ вечерний,
И душой одинокой ему покорись.
Ты иди себе, молча, к какой хочешь вечерне,
Где душа твоя просит, там молись.
Кто придет к тебе, будь он, как ангел, светел,
Ты прими его просто, будто видел во сне,
И молчи без конца, чтоб никто не заметил,
Кто сидел на скамье, промелькнул в окне.
И никто не узнает, о чем молчанье,
И о чем спокойных дум простота.
Да. Она придет. Забелеет сиянье.
Без вины прижмет к устам уста.
«I am fed up with words, words, words, / And am no longer able to extol my rights / On speech and meaning, while all the night / Like a widow, ragged foliage knocks upon the roof. / It turns out my hearing is no good / For mumbled nightly speech of widowhood. We are akin. We are not akin. ...»
«Here's our table set for six, / Roses, crystal gloss. / And among the guests, amiss, / There are grief and loss. Here comes father from the past, / Brother from the war. / Hours pass. We hear, at last, / Knocking at the door... And her hand is just as cold / As 'twas twelve years bac...»
«Do I need excuses / For divine mismatching? — / Poetry and music / Aren't cure-all magic. And why hum insanely / Tunes and verses hopeless? / Having nothing saintly / Feels more fun and homeless. And our gain is pretty / Minuscule and fleeting — / Only heartfelt pity, / So th...»
«T. O.-T. My evening, silver-feathered, / All-consecrating light! / As if no longer present, / I turn to you my sight – With gratefulness: for every / Revitalizing breath, / That in my final craving / You granted to my breast, For every elevation / Of your becalming hand, / For a...»