And cursing each other with brute
Passion, white-hot all through,
Neither one of us understood
How small the earth was for two,
That memory torments with spite,
Afflicting the most strong-hearted,
That one learns to plead in the night:
Where has my friend departed?
And as the choir voices rise,
Happy and menacing, that instant,
The same two stern and certain eyes
Survey the soul, persistent.
И когда друг друга проклинали
В страсти, раскалённой добела,
Оба мы ещё не понимали,
Как земля для двух людей мала,
И что память яростная мучит,
Пытка сильных — огненный недуг! —
И в ночи́ бездонной сердце учит
Спрашивать: о, где ушедший друг?
А когда, сквозь волны фимиама,
Хор гремит, ликуя и грозя,
Смотрят в душу строго и упрямо
Те же неизбежные глаза.
«What happened to Me, Vladimir Mayakovsky, at the Rumyantzev Summerhouse, Mount Akula, Pushkino, on the Yaroslav Railway. The sunset fired a hundred suns, / summer had rolled into July, / heat stretched and purred, / heat hugged the sky — / and it was in the country this occurred. / The ...»
«It wasn’t an unearthly shock — / Not a shade from death’s door. / Into the port, / blazing / like molten summer, / entered / and turning...»
«You and I sit in the kitchen, / With the sweet smell of white paraffin; / The sharp knife and the round loaf... / Would you like the primus stoked, Or should we not gather some cord / And tie up the basket before dawn, / So as to leave for the station, / Where no-one will find us.»
«In the white night — crimson crescent's / Coming out in the blue. / Roams in ghostly-splendid essence, / Looks in Neva stream askew. / / Secret thoughts' fulfillment beckons, / I can see it in my sleep. / Does Good hide in you, I reckon, / Crimson crescent, quiet weep?.. / https...»