Everything here’s exactly the same
as it ever was; it won’t get better—
don’t even dream it will.
When yours is a ramshackle house
on a forgotten, barely passable road
where no one goes,
it’s best to lock the shutters
long before nightfall.
The house is quiet—actually, silent,
empty, and not very welcoming.
A single window looks out towards the woods.
They cut the last tenant down from a rope,
cursing his godless deed
and the nuisance of carting him out.
Maybe he was terribly depressed, or maybe
underhandedly happy to call it quits—
dead, anyway—that much is sure.
Death’s the only big winner in the end.
Sometimes his ghost will flicker, nearly visible,
on the faded red velvet of one of the chairs.
Nights, the cuckoo clock makes a merry noise.
It hasn’t much to say, but what it does it repeats
very clearly—and louder, it seems,
the later it gets. Peering through a chink
in the wall I can see out there, past the hill,
some horse thieves have built themselves a campfire.
The smoke from it floats along low to the ground,
a clear sign we’re in for a bit of rain,
as the saying goes, “Fair weather ends
when smoke descends.” I’m not worried that the wet
will drive those thieves to try my house.
I wear a piece of the hanged man’s
dark blue silk rope on my wrist,
which, as any gambler knows,
guarantees luck.
Здесь все то же, то же, что и прежде,
Здесь напрасным кажется мечтать.
В доме у дороги непроезжей
Надо рано ставни запирать.
Тихий дом мой пусть и неприветлив,
Он на лес глядит одним окном,
В нем кого-то вынули из петли
И бранили мертвого потом.
Был он грустен или тайно-весел,
Только смерть — большое торжество.
На истертом красном плюше кресел
Изредка мелькает тень его.
И часы с кукушкой ночи рады,
Все слышней их четкий разговор.
В щелочку смотрю я: конокрады
Зажигают под холмом костер.
И, пророча близкое ненастье,
Низко, низко стелется дымок.
Мне не страшно. Я ношу на счастье
Темно-синий шелковый шнурок.