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.
«The senseless years' extinguished mirth and laughter / Oppress me like some hazy morning-after. / But sadness of days past, as alcohol — / The more it age, the stronger grip the soul. / My course is dull. The future's troubled ocean / Forebodes me toil, misfortune and commotion. But no,...»
«Extinguished gaiety of years, which sunk in madness, / Presses on me like a hangover restless. / But in my soul, foregoing pine / Becomes through time still stronger, like a wine. / My way is sad. Predicts me toile and woe – / The sea of future in a wrath and row. But, oh, my friends, I...»
«His eyes are like faded burdock. / He clasps the coins in his hands. / He was a glorious shepherd, / Now he sings of times past. / And in the corner, an old woman / Sheds tears in front of an icon. / She used to be his beloved, / His drunk nectar in a green meadow. / Dry dust coats t...»
«For A. Sakharov / / The storm has passed. Few of us survived. / Many are missing from friendship’s roll call. / I’ve returned to the orphaned region / I haven’t seen in eight years. / / Who should I call to? With whom should I share / The sad joy that I’m still alive? / ...»