City of splendour, city of poor,
spirit of grace and servitude,
heaven’s vault of palest lime,
boredom, granite, bitter cold —
still I miss you rather, for
down your streets from time to time
one may spy a tiny foot,
one may glimpse a lock of gold.
Город пышный, город бедный,
Дух неволи, стройный вид,
Свод небес зелёно-бледный,
Скука, холод и гранит —
Всё же мне вас жаль немножко,
Потому что здесь порой
Ходит маленькая ножка,
Вьётся локон золотой.
«To birds and to poets the Lord all their sustenance gives: / I dont reap or sow, but for a second year I exist. / And for kind song-poems the people whore also kind / Will forgive your errors and sins, too, if any they find. / Who needs the art now? Who needs it — I do not know, / But to...»
«My fire on the shore was getting low. / The liquid glass was petting sleepy sand. / And bitter wormwood soul, evaporating slow, / In misty darkness swayed above the land. The broken granite wings are not in motion, / The winding spine is caught by stone grips. / Abandoned land, I see your...»
«Was it not you / Who in the time of sorrow / Cast down / The scales and the sword / And licensed the berserk / To weigh the good and evil? / Was it not you / Who kneaded peoples / Solidly and densely, / Leavening the dough / With blood and tears, / Who now tramples down, fierce...»
«My bonfire on the shore was burning down. / I heard the rustling sound of streaming glass. / The acrid soul of wistful wormwood wound / Through languid darkness, swayed, and flowed past. / The granite crags resemble fractured wings. / The weight of hills bends down a spinal cord. / The n...»