De profundis... My generation
Had been fed without honey. Aft that
Just a wind sings in gloomy recession,
And remembrance of them who is dead.
Our business have never been finished,
Our time had been marked by the end;
‘Till the watershed of our wishing,
‘Till the spring’s top, that might be so grand,
‘Till the blooming with fiery passion —
There was distance in only one breath...
By two wars, my generation,
Had been lighted your awful path.
De profundis... Моё поколенье
Мало мёду вкусило. И вот
Только ветер гудит в отдаленьи,
Только память о мёртвых поёт.
Наше было не кончено дело,
Наши были часы сочтены,
До желанного водораздела,
До вершины великой весны,
До неистового цветенья
Оставалось лишь раз вздохнуть...
Две войны, моё поколенье,
Освещали твой страшный путь.
«Blue was the morning. It was early yet. / Tormented Moscow was still sleeping. / Through the windows, / through the double panes, / Bells suddenly could be heard ringing. And glancing at the sky in fear, / I saw, / through the mist there / from afar, black monks jostling their way... ...»
«By the Moscow River, in Gluboki Street, / Dulcineas peer from windows, / waiting for their Don Quixotes to return / from work, / and from bubbling barley / they compose soups on a blue flame. / Time’s aged them slightly — cares weigh on their eyelids, but... / the Don Quixotes are ...»
«He breathes in the air, breathes in the early grass, / breathes the rushes while they stir, / every song while it can still be heard, / a warm woman’s hand cupped beneath his head. / Breathes, breathes—but cannot breathe enough. Breathes his mother — / ...»
«In our world there lived a soldier, / lie was extremely handsome, very brave, / but he happed to be a children’s toy — / for he was merely a paper soldier. He wished to refashion all the world, / to make each individual happy, / but he dangled over a child’s cot, / for he was mere...»