Motor-scooter roaring
past the sanatorium!
Behind the handlebars
like Rublyov angels: loving riders.
As in the fresco of the Annunciation
with its strident white tone
see their women scattering a shine
behind them, like wings on their spine!
The splaying of their dress!
Tugged back from the handlebars!
Thrust into my shoulders
a wing’s white fleece!
Shall I fly off?
Drop down
like a falcon?
A stone? –
Autumn.
The skies. The good
red woods.
Мимо санатория
реют мотороллеры.
За рулем влюбленные —
как ангелы рублевские.
Фреской Благовещенья,
резкой белизной
за ними блещут женщины,
как крылья за спиной!
Их одежда плещет,
рвется от руля,
вонзайтесь в мои плечи,
белые крыла.
Улечу ли?
Кану ль?
Соколом ли?
Камнем?
Осень. Небеса.
Красные леса.
«He has a photo of himself / next to a girlfriend, friend and neighbor; / at leisure and in tireless labor; / holding a flute, a ball, a saber; / himself — raising glass of wine; / himself — receiving a diploma; / himself — in front of roofs and walls, / at gates of Sodom and Go...»
«So what if I'd gone through it all? / It's been a while. I don't recall. / I can't recall dates any more, / nor the locations of attacks. (I am one atom of that war, / a nameless private. I came back. / I am one shot's mistaken trace, / I'm bloody ice of January. / I am imprisoned ...»
«And all that's needed is to look, that's all it takes: / To look indeed, and be a little more attentive, / And you will stay, becoming instantly a captive / Of these two eyes, their unanticipated depth. / And all that's needed is to read, that's all it takes: / To read indeed, and over eve...»
«Taken cruelly from me, snatched out, / Crying desperately for me nightly, / Childlike shoulders in a plain black gown, — / Best of treasures, unreturned by the Almighty, I implore you by the past, the present — / Do not follow me with deer-like eyes, please, / Sleep in peace, don’...»