In these days of unheard-of suffering
One is lucky indeed to have no heart:
Crack-shots plug me again and again,
But have no luck.
Riddled with holes, I laugh
At the furious pack: “Tally-ho, boys!
I am a lattice. Look through me.
Isn’t the landscape lovely?”
But suppose a gun should locate,
Tied by an aching thread,
Beating a hair’s breadth off target,
My Achilles heart.
Beware, my darling. Hush. Not a sound,
While I charge noisily
From place to place around Russia,
As a bird diverts the hunters from its nest.
Are you still in pain? Do you act up at night?
This defenseless extra is what saves me.
Do not handle it roughly;
The shudder would bring me down.
Our destruction is unthinkable,
More unthinkable what we endure,
More unthinkable still that a sniper
Should ever sever the quivering thread.
В дни неслыханно болевые
быть без сердца — мечта.
Чемпионы лупили навылет —
ни черта!
Продырявленный, точно решёта,
утешаю ажиотаж:
"Поглазейте в меня, как в решетку, —
так шикарен пейзаж!"
Но неужто узнает ружье,
где,
привязано нитью болезненной,
бьешься ты в миллиметре от лезвия,
ахиллесово
сердце
мое!?
Осторожнее, милая, тише...
Нашумело меняя места,
Я ношусь по России —
как птица
отвлекает огонь от гнезда.
Все болишь? Ночами пошаливаешь?
Ну и плюс!
Не касайтесь рукою шершавою —
я от судороги — валюсь.
Невозможно расправиться с нами.
Невозможнее — выносить.
Но еще невозможней —
вдруг снайпер
срежет
нить!
«Oh what a night! There’s biting frost, / There are no clouds on the coast; / The azure arch, a woven plaid, / Is dazzled with the frequent stars. / All homes are dark. And every gate / Is safely locked with bolts and bars. / And all is peaceful as of late. / At last, the marketplace ...»
«Where sea waves crash against / The barren cliffs with all their might, / Where the glowing moon enchants / In the twilight of the night, / Where, in a harem, a Muslim, daily / Spends his time without a care, / The sorceress, caressing, gave me / A sacred talisman to wear. And then, e...»
«A withered flower lies forgotten / Inside a book, before my eyes: / My soul awakes, all of the sudden, / And I begin to fantasize: Where did it grow? Among which plants? / How long ago? And picked by whom, / By foreign or familiar hands? / Did it already start to bloom? Placed here in ...»
«I loved you: and perhaps this flame / Has not gone out completely in my soul; / No longer shall it ever cause you pain; / I do not want to sadden you at all. / I loved you frantically, without reserve, / At times too jealous, and at times too shy, / I pray to God you get what you deserve...»