He meant to bring me to my senses:
he couldn’t have taken aim more precisely
if he’d drawn a target “X” in charcoal
on the left side of my chest.
His plan was to expel my unhappiness
by opening a window of wound
through which it could escape
like a bird back into wide night.
Dearest, your hand is steady, your aim
is true; I only suffer for an instant.
My misery will take fright and flight,
hurtle off to find, with hurt urgency,
some safe branch to roost on,
and there begin to sing
so you can stand,
like one whose peace is restored,
composedly, in your home,
open the window to better hear the song,
and say, “I recognize the voice,
but I can’t make out the words,”
and then look away.
Углем наметил на левом боку
Место, куда стрелять,
Чтоб выпустить птицу — мою тоску
В пустынную ночь опять.
Милый! не дрогнет твоя рука,
И мне недолго терпеть.
Вылетит птица — моя тоска,
Сядет на ветку и станет петь.
Чтоб тот, кто спокоен в своем дому,
Раскрывши окно, сказал:
«Голос знакомый, а слов не пойму», —
И опустил глаза.