I recall, we would date at sundown,
You would cut the lagoon with the ore.
I admired your white dressing gown
Not revering fine dreams any more.
Our dates would be awkwardly silent.
Up ahead on the sandy shore
Evening candles would light up, and someone
Thought of beauty, about to show.
Close-up, burning and intimate feeling
Quiet azure wouldn't partake.
We would meet in the haze of the evening
On the shore of the rippled lake.
All has vanished: love, torment, yearning,
All has faded forevermore...
Slender waist and the voices of mourning,
Our row and your golden ore.
Мы встречались с тобой на закате.
Ты веслом рассекала залив.
Я любил твоё белое платье,
Утонченность мечты разлюбив.
Были странны безмолвные встречи.
Впереди — на песчаной косе
Загорались вечерние свечи.
Кто-то думал о бледной красе.
Приближений, сближений, сгорании
Не приемлет лазурная тишь…
Мы встречались в вечернем тумане,
Где у берега рябь и камыш.
Ни тоски, ни любви, ни обиды,
Всё померкло, прошло, отошло…
Белый стан, голоса панихиды
И твоё золотое весло.
«The smokey blotches of the neighbours’ windows, / and windswept roses bending, drawing breath — / if I could think that life is but a dream, / that we cannot help waking after death. To wait in heaven — heaven is so blue — / to wait in that cool bliss without a care. / And then, ...»
«I still find charm in little accidental / trifles, empty little things — / say, in a novel without end or title, / or in this rose, now wilting in my hands. I like its moiré petals, dappled / with trembling silver drops of rain — / and how I found it on the sidewalk, / and how I’...»
«Where can I look, where can I go, / to find that almost Alpine snow, / all sacrificed so life can grow, / all turned by May to splash and flow, / to breath of dandelion and rose, / to mighty wave or shining billow — / into that foolish question posed / by François Villon long ago?»
«Led by what is shining, / the sleepwalker looks into a blank, / black is the death beneath him / and there’s no knowing / where the moon’s thin ledge / will slide him. The innocent are executed / in a universal night — / look the other way. / Look into cold nothing / and let...»