You will think about her as about your first bride,
To the point of tears in your dreams.
We did not inhale her fragrance together,
And you did not bring her to me.
She was brought to me
By that winged ruler of gods and muses,
When the peals of the first thunder
Glorified our terrible union.
That union that is called separation
And is torment to the hundredth power,
That is the purest and blackest of all.
Ты о ней как о первой невесте
Будешь думать во сне и до слез...
Мы ее не вдыхали вместе,
И не ты мне ее принес.
Мне принес ее тот крылатый
Повелитель богов и муз,
Когда первого грома раскаты
Прославляли наш страшный союз.
Тот союз, что зовут разлукой,
И какою-то сотою мукой,
Что всех чище и всех черней.
«"She passed away, and was interred by Jacob / Beside the road..." And on the tomb, no sight / Of any name, inscription and no mark up. At nighttime, there’s a gleaming feeble light, / And whitewashed with chalk, the grave’s cupola / With enigmatic paleness is attired. I’m timidly app...»
«To E. K. Gertsyk When the love of flesh fades, / So goes the desire to create. / Your fingers don’t long to handle clay / Or chisel shadows into marble. Your song halts in mid-word, / The brush freezes in mid-stroke — / Surprise…how little they matter. / Farewell, farewell to you...»
«When forty rolls around / It’s too late to play with the muses / It’s too late to languish to music / To drink fiery potion / It’s time to quiet down / It’s time to raise grandchildren / It’s time to shorten your road / When forty rolls around. / / When forty rolls aroun...»
«As my days are fading, / I welcome night’s calm. / The past no longer casts a / Shadow before me — That long shadow that we, / In our tongue-tied futility / To distinguish it from other shadows, / Call our future.»