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.
«Lice stupidly prayed godding me, / Every morning they crawled through my clothes, / Every morning I killed them, — / Listen to their cracks, — / But they came again like quietly confident surf. The white godlike marrow of mine / I gave, Russia, you: / Be Khlebnikov, be my mind. / ...»
«Russia gave freedom to many thousands. / A pretty affair! It will be remembered for long. / And I just took off my shirt / And mirror sky-scrapers of every hair, / Every chink / Of body-city / Hung out carpets and red bunting cloths. / All citizens, male and female, / Of Me, Me — a...»
«The sea-coast. / Sky. Stars. I’m quiet. I’m lying down. / My pillow’s neither a stone, nor feathers: / A sailor’s worn-throught boot. / Samorodov wore it in those red days / When he led the revolt / And moved ship of the white to Krasnovodsk, / To the red waters. / Getting da...»
«Wind is singing — / Who, of what? / Sword of eager / To be just swat. / Tenderly, like a favored flower / People cherish their deathday. / On the strings of grandeur, believe me, / The East has started to play. / Maybe the magician from the shining mountains / Will give us new pr...»