By the early sunrise seized,
I sing of love aloud,
In the garden, on my knees
Weeding goosefoot out.
I tear it out and I hurl —
Pardon this offense.
I see a little barefoot girl
Crying by the fence.
Voice of sorrow rings and swells,
Filling me with dread,
Stronger grows the tepid smell
Of the weed now dead.
Stone, not bread, will be my prize
To accept with poise,
Up above me, just the skies,
And with me, your voice.
Я на солнечном восходе
Про любовь пою,
На коленях в огороде
Лебеду полю.
Вырываю и бросаю —
Пусть простит меня.
Вижу, девочка босая
Плачет у плетня.
Страшно мне от звонких воплей
Голоса беды,
Всё сильнее запах тёплый
Мёртвой лебеды.
Будет камень вместо хлеба
Мне наградой злой.
Надо мною только небо,
А со мною голос твой.
«Beautiful lassies, we are you now? / You who don't answer me anymore / You who forgot all about me; / Left me behind — now my weakened voice / Wakes up the echo in vain. Have you been eaten by angry beasts? / Or by your lovers you're being kept? / Go on, answer me dearest, / I fell ...»
«Marvellous, and sad — yes, that’s what this temple / is — a joy, a temptation, a threat. / Eyes exhausted with desire / bum in the slits of confessional windows. The organ melody rises, falls, / then swells fuller and more terrible, / like blood in dark church-granite veins / riot...»
«Yes, this cathedral is both wondrous and sad, / It is: temptation, joy, and menace. / Eyes, weary with desire, / Burn in the windows of the confessionals. The organ melody swells and recedes / And swells again, fuller and more awesome. / Like blood, surging drunkenly / Through the grani...»
«Yes I know, me and you — we aren't alike, / I have come from far away soils, / And it's not the guitar I like, / It's the sound of violent tonsils. Its not for the buildings or roads / Not for the dresses or fashion — / I spell out my poems for dragons, / For the clouds, for flowers...»