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.
«Along my street, these steady steps resound / Year after year: my friends are slowly leaving. / The all-absorbing lightlessness around / Finds ease in seeing me alone and grieving. Sad, unattended are my friends’ affairs; / Their homes are dull; no song or music sounding; / Degas’ y...»
«And in conclusion I will say, / Farewell, don’t pledge your love in vanity. / My mind’s away, or on its way / Towards the higher loss of sanity. How loved was I? — You toyed with my / Mortality — that does not matter. / How loved was I? — You made me die, / But you could mak...»
«(From "Who Can Live Happily in Russia?") God's will be done! / No food he'll try, / The youngest son— / Look, he will die. A crust I got, / Another bit— / He touched it not: / "Put salt on it!" Of salt no shred, / No pinch I see! / "Take flour, instead," / God whispered me. ...»
«My poems! Witnesses of unavailing / Tears for the sad earth shed! / Born in the moment when the soul is failing, / And by the storm-winds bred; / Against men's hearts you beat with wistful wailing / Like waves on cliffs as dead.»