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.
«A mournful waxwork exhibition / Is opened for the third year straight. / A crowd of drunks awaits admission... / While in the grave, the queen awaits. She lies there, in her tomb of glass, / Neither alive nor fully dead, / And shameless people, as they pass, / All whisper of the life sh...»
«When you are standing on my path, / So full of life, so full of beauty, / And yet so wearied, / You only talk about sad things, / You only think about death, / You do not love a soul, / And you despise your beauty — / What then? Could I offend you? / O, no! I’m not an oppressor, ...»
«The pain appeared to be relentless: / The night was burning low outside; / She wrung her arms like she was senseless, / And they would shimmer in the light. / The meaningless life, nearly ending, / Continued to torture and scold; / As thought a ghost that was ascending, / The day revea...»
«I’m nailed to the tavern counter. / I’m drunk already, but not through. / The happiness that I’ve encountered / The troika took into the blue... It flew off in the sleigh, and drowned / In snows of time, beyond the sky... / And silver haze, raised from the ground, / Just whipped m...»