Fumbling in black memory you’ll find
Those same long gloves,
A Petersburg night. And the air,
Close and sweet, of some dark box.
And a wind from the gulf. And there,
Between the lines, the cries on-stage,
Blok smiling scornfully at you,
He, the tragic tenor of his age.
И в памяти чёрной пошарив, найдёшь
До самого локтя перчатки,
И ночь Петербурга. И в сумраке лож
Тот запах и душный и сладкий.
И ветер с залива. А там, между строк,
Минуя и ахи и охи,
Тебе улыбнётся презрительно Блок —
Трагический тенор эпохи.
«So? Hot grog or cognac poured to waylay? / From chills to cold - the route is barred. / Through dishes' jingling, music's playing — / The lilac twilight cloaks the bar. As if entombed by thick and solid / And smooth expanse of polished glass, / Light blue aquarium is gorged with stolid...»
«I come undone and any ploy, / Insanity’d be welcome now, / They stroll toward me (by Fate employed) / An armless man with pregnant spouse. An angel hands a lyre to me, / The world turns lucid — crystal glassed, / While they, called up by new marquee, / Will gape at Charlie’s lates...»
«The secrets under Maya’s garments / My hand is timid to reveal. / Reflected world of wonders, charming / In your large pupil — seems surreal. And combinations intertwining / Spell love, show parts of city street — / The neon lights and Ether shining / Spring’s verve and thaw it ...»
«Oh peaceful hours of precious solitude! / Epiphanies I treasure like prized grain — / Which sprouts from my soul’s dark terrain / From inspiration’s seed to charmed and verdant fruit. Souls' torments in the days gone by / And wine — set heart aflame; / While now sole remains / ...»