Our births, for we are too like brothers,
Took place beneath the self-same star,
And ruddy Bacchus and the others
Our fate have fiddled from afar.
We both appeared bright and early,
The races, not the market, graced,
Derzhavin’s tomb, ’midst hurly-burly,
Was where we idle rapture chased.
From adolescence we were pampered.
And being filled with lazy pride
In truth we really were not hampered
By thoughts of children’s rights denied.
But you, O carefree son of Phoebe,
Would not betray your lofty art
To cunning traders, those who would be
The judges of your noble heart.
Oh yes, they’ve scolded us, the scribblers,
We’ve heard ourselves by all maligned:
We’re glory-hunters, boozy dribblers,
Whose glass enflames our reckless mind.
But yet your word, so strong, so soaring,
Is taunted by some parodist,
Your verses, richly hope restoring,
Are chewed by toothless journalist.
Мы рождены, мой брат названый,
Под одинаковой звездой.
Киприда, Феб и Вакх румяный
Играли нашею судьбой.
Явилися мы рано оба
На ипподром, а не на торг,
Вблизи державинского гроба,
И шумный встретил нас восторг.
Избаловало нас начало.
И в гордой лености своей
Заботились мы оба мало
Судьбой гуляющих детей.
Но ты, сын Феба беззаботный,
Своих возвышенных затей
Не предавал рукой расчётной
Оценке хитрых торгашей.
В одних журналах нас <ругали>,
Упрёки те же слышим мы:
Мы любим <славу> да в б<окале>
Топить разгульные умы.
Твой слог могучий и кры<латый>
Какой-то дразнит пародист,
И стих, <надеждами> <богатый>,
Жуёт беззубый журналист.
«5 And this Don Juan had Donna Anna, / And this Don Juan possessed a sword. / Of the beautiful, unhappy Don Juan / This from people is the only word. But I was a clever one today: / I at midnight stepped on roadside, / Someone went along with me in stride / Calling names. And in fog th...»
«6 And the silk sash is falling / To his feet — a snake heavenly.. / And "someday, when she's underground, / You will calm down" they tell me. I see my profile, old / And arrogant in brocade white. / And somewhere — guitars — guitars — / And youths in a cloak like the night. ...»
«7 And fanning in eyes of the coming / Sadness and sin, / You pass the city — brutally-black, / Heavenly-thin. Covered with torment, like with fog, / Is your eye. / In loop — a rose, in all the pockets — / Words of love. Aye! I hear your call over the restaurant / Violin. / ...»
«Above the church there are blue clouds, / A crows' cry... / And pass — the color of ash and sand — / Revolutionary troops... oh my / Blue-blooded, my kingly angst! They don't have a face, don't have a name — / Nobody sings! / You got lost, the Kremlin ringing / In this banner fo...»