Evening hours at the desk,
The page irremediably white,
The mimosa’s scent is of Nice, warmth,
Over the moon some vast bird flies.
And, twining my braids for night,
As if I must wear them tomorrow,
I look from the window at sand-dunes, sea,
Free of sorrow.
How much power a man has
Who doesn’t ask for affection!
I can’t even lift my weary eyelids
When he chooses to speak my name.
Вечерние часы перед столом,
Непоправимо белая страница.
Мимоза пахнет Ниццей и теплом.
В луче луны летит большая птица.
И, туго косы на ночь заплетя,
Как будто завтра нужны будут косы,
В окно гляжу я, больше не грустя,
На море, на песчаные откосы.
Какую власть имеет человек,
Который даже нежности не просит!
Я не могу поднять усталых век,
Когда мое он имя произносит.
«Winter nears. Once more / the bear’s secret retreat / will vanish under mud’s floor, / to a child’s fretful grief. Huts will wake in the water, / reflecting paths of smoke, / circled by autumn’s tremor / lovers meet by the fire to talk. Denizens of the harsh North / whose roo...»
«Like a brazier’s bronze cinders, / the sleepy garden’s beetles flowing. / Level with me, and my candle, / a flowering world is hanging. As if into unprecedented faith, / I cross into this night, / where the poplar’s beaten grey / veils the moon’s rim from sight. Where the pond...»
«Like with a bronze ash of the braziers / Spills with the beetles sleepy park. / With me and candle mine at grade with / Are hanging blossomed worlds in fact. And like in an unprecedented / Faith am I passing at this night, / Where poplar that’s dilapidated / Has veiled a lunar path al...»
«Ice-chips plucked whole from the smoke, / the past week’s stars all frozen in flight, / Head over heels the skater’s club goes, / clinking its rink with the peal of night. Step slow, slower, slow-er, skater, / pride carving its trace as you race by. / each turn’s a constellation cut...»