I am seeking a grave site that’s bright.
Can you help, I am tired and weary?
Open fields get so cold in the night.
Heaps of stones by the sea are so dreary.
She’s so used to the peace she knew prior,
And she loves the rays of the sun,
I will build a small hermitage by her,
As our home for the ages to come.
With two windows, a door in-between,
And an icon lamp always alight,
Like a dark heart, the icon will gleam
With a scarlet-red fire inside.
She was raving, you know, sick in bed,
Of some heavenly place in the blue,
But a monk, reproaching her, said:
“It was not made for sinners like you.”
It was then that she whispered to me,
Turning pale from pain: “Let us go.”
Now alone we are wandering free,
With our feet in the blue surf below.
Я места ищу для могилы.
Не знаешь ли, где светлей?
Так холодно в поле. Унылы
У моря груды камней.
А она привыкла к покою
И любит солнечный свет.
Я келью над ней построю,
Как дом наш на много лет.
Между окнами будет дверца,
Лампадку внутри зажжем,
Как будто темное сердце
Алым горит огнем.
Она бредила, знаешь, больная,
Про иной, про небесный край,
Но сказал монах, укоряя:
«Не для вас, не для грешных рай».
И тогда, побелев от боли,
Прошептала: «Уйду с тобой».
Вот одни мы теперь, на воле,
И у ног голубой прибой.
«Blessed are they that righteousness proclaim! / But he who traces with discerning art / Some wicked convolution of the heart / Is not engulfed in the foul depths of shame. / Two regions — one of splendor, one of night — / We seek with equal zeal to scan aright. / An apple tumbles ear...»
«Of what use are you, days? There can be nothing / New for the mind to greet; / The world is full of things and all familiar, / And time can but repeat. Not vainly did you strive in your impatience, / O frantic soul, to gain / Your full development bef...»
«Phyllida, as the nights grow colder, / With every winter that she sees, / Bares further her appalling shoulder, / A skeleton that strives to please; And, a sepulchral Venus, brightly / Approaches the last couch of all, / As though before she slept she lightly / Let, one by one, her garm...»
«I’m a beast corralled for slaughter / Freedom shines so far away... / Here the hounds are getting closer, / As the hunt is underway. A lake’s edge, a somber forest, / An old tree log lying there… / No way out. I am cornered. / Come what may. I do n...»