Along that road where brave Donskoi
once led his mighty host to war,
where the wind's mindful of the foe,
the moon's a crescent of yellow,
I walked as if in ocean deep...
The sweet briar so perfumed the air
as if 't were speech itself so rare;
and I was apt at last to meet
the ninth and fatal wave of fate.
По той дороге, где Донской
Вел рать великую когда-то,
Где ветер помнит супостата,
Где месяц желтый и рогатый, —
Я шла, как в глубине морской...
Шиповник так благоухал,
Что даже превратился в слово,
И встретить я была готова
Моей судьбы девятый вал.
«Longer, darker Are the cold nights, / But the days keep getting shorter, / And the sky — lighter. / The distant thistle / Grows more sparse and dry, / And the wind in the sedge, / Where the shore is high, / Is more drawling and hollow. / The water cools, / The dam is silenced, / ...»
«Groans, / Groans, / Exhausted, fathomless, / The prolonged tolling / Of funeral bells. / Groans, / Groans... / Complaints, / Complaints against the Father... / Burning, piercing pity, / A yearning for the end, / Co...»
«They babbled / fairy tales to / me about the earth: / “Man lives there. And love.” But, in truth — / there’s only evil, / Disguises. Masks. / Lies and filth. Lies and blood. When they suggested /...»
«They would pass by, and again depart, / They could not deceive me... / There is a certain, single word / Which encompasses the entire essence. The others — are dried feather-grass. / The others — are all flotsam, / Gray dust. / A girl walked across the street, / An auto screamed a...»