A boy said to me: «How painful it is!»
And it’s a great pity with him.
Just a short while ago he was content,
Having only heard about sorrow.
And now he knows all of it, no less
Than you, wise and old, do.
Dimmed and, it seems, already became
So the pupils of blinding eyes.
I know: he won’t cope with his pain,
With first love’s bitter pain,
How helplessly, greedily and torridly
My cold hands are caressing.
Мальчик сказал мне: «Как это больно!»
И мальчика очень жаль…
Ещё так недавно он был довольным
И только слыхал про печаль.
А теперь он знает всё не хуже
Мудрых и старых вас.
Потускнели и, кажется, стали у́же
Зрачки ослепительных глаз.
Я знаю: он с болью своей не сладит,
С горькой болью первой любви.
Как безпомощно, жадно и жарко гладит
Холодные руки мои.
«1 The river spreads wide. Flows sluggish, sad, / and washes at its banks. / Above the yellow cliff’s barren clay, / hayricks stand sadly in the steppe. O, Russia! My wife! Our long road lies / painfully clear ahead! / The road has pierced our breas...»
«2 At midnight, You and I, halted in the steppe: / No returning, no looking back. / The swans, beyond the Nepryadva, cried, / and again and again, they cry… On our road — the white burning stone. / beyond the river — the pagan horde. / Over our host the shining banner / will neve...»
«3 That night, when Mamai went to ground / on the steppe, by the bridges, / we were in the dark plain together, You and I — / Did you know this? Before the Don, ominous and shadowed, / my prophetic heart / heard your voice in the plain at night / ...»
«4 Again with age-old anguish / the grass bends to the earth. / Again beyond the misty river / You summon me from afar. The herd of mares fled the steppe / and vanished without trace, / Wild passions are unleashed / beneath a waning moon. And I, with age-old anguish / A wolf beneath ...»