You and I are forlorn, I presume.
Let"s relax in this quiet room.
In this corner, so warm and so bright,
Let us watch the October night.
As before, there are lights outside.
Dear friend, we are old and retired.
All is gone: hardship, blizzards and dread.
Why on earth are you looking ahead?
It appears you wish you could read
News or message you badly need.
Are you waiting for an angel's gift?
All is gone and can"t be retrieved.
All we have are the books, walls and days.
Dear friend, we won't change our ways.
I don't grumble, my wishes are small,
And I don't grieve for bygones at all.
And I wonder just why you begin
Threading beads on a shiny string
Like you did in the past, long ago,
Those were really the days, you know!
But you were young then, and how!
And your silk was brighter than now.
You were very dexterous then...
Take a bright, shining thread again,
So the shine of the thread, like a spark,
Might subdue, and surmount the dark.
Мы забыты, одни на земле.
Посидим же тихонько в тепле.
В этом комнатном, теплом углу
Поглядим на октябрьскую мглу
За окном, как тогда, огоньки.
Милый друг, мы с тобой старики.
Всё, что было и бурь и невзгод,
Позади. Что ж ты смотришь вперёд?
Смотришь, точно ты хочешь прочесть
Там какую-то новую весть?
Точно ангела бурного ждёшь?
Всё прошло. Ничего не вернёшь.
Только стены, да книги, да дни.
Милый друг мой, привычны они.
Ничего я не жду, не ропщу,
Ни о чем, что прошло, не грущу.
Только, вот, принялась ты опять
Светлый бисер на нитки низать,
Как когда-то, ты помнишь тогда...
О, какие то были года!
Но, когда ты моложе была,
И шелка ты поярче брала,
И ходила рука побыстрей...
Так возьми ж и теперь попестрей,
Чтобы шёлк, что вдеваешь в иглу,
Побеждал пестротой эту мглу.
«Silence. In the junipers atop the valley, / Autumn — a roam mare — rubs her mane for dressing. Well above the wooded river banks — / That's the dark blue clang her horseshoes make. Wind, a monk, walks past with wary footsteps / Holding back the foliage on the pathways, Kissing, when h...»
«In the morning the bitch whelped / Seven reddish-brown puppies, / In the rye barn where a row / Of bast mats gleamed like gold. / Licking their pelts smooth, / And underneath her, the snow / Melted out in the heat. But at dusk, when the hens / Were roosting on the perch, / There cam...»
«I'll glance in the field, glance in the sky — / Both the fields and sky are my paradise. / Again my undone land / Is diving into the stacks of rye. Again, in the untended groves / There are inescapable herds, / And the water from the golden fountain / Is cascading down the green hills...»
«The green hairdo / Maiden's breasts, / Oh, then birch tree, / Why have you stared at the pond? What is the wind whispering to you? / What is the sand ringing about? / Or do you want the moon's comb / In your plaits-branches? Open, open the mystery / Of your forest dreams / I have f...»