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.
«For joy’s sake, from my hands, / take some honey and some sun, / as Persephone’s bees told us. Not to be freed, the unmoored boat. / Not to be heard, fur-booted shadows. / Not to be silenced, life’s dark terrors. Now we only have kisses, / dry and bristling like bees, / that die ...»
«Take — for the sake of joy — out of my palms / a little sunlight and a little honey, / as we were told to by Persephone’s bees. You can’t untie a boat that isn’t moored, / nor can you hear a shadow shod in fur, / nor — in this dense life — overpower fear. The only thing that...»
«The flowers say good-bye to me, / They bend their heads and bow low down / Which means that I will never see / Her lovely face and my home town. / / Well, that"s the way it is, my love! / I saw them all in habitation, / I take this deathly trepidation / For tender feeling, still a...»
«I will not be wandering about / Trampling goosefoot in the bushes any more; / And I know you"ll never come around / In my dreams, oat-haired, as before. / / You were tender beautiful and fair, / Berry juice upon your skin, so light. / You resembled rosy sunset glare, / And, like...»