I don’t like flowers – they remind of
The funerals and weddings, festive balls,
And fancy dining tables above all…
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Only the timeless roses – charming, light,
Which brought me joy since childhood, somehow
Remained my sole inheritance till now,
Like sounds of Mozart, like the dark of night.
Я не люблю цветы — они напоминают
Мне похороны, свадьбы и балы,
Для ужина накрытые столы
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Но лишь предвечных роз простая красота,
Та, что всегда была моей отрадой с детства,
Осталась и досель единственным наследством,
Как звуки Моцарта, как ночи чернота.
«All my "I" swings like a pendulum, / And its sweep is very wide. / It sways, slides, alternates: / Now it's hope, now it's fear. From knowing, from not knowing, from flickering / My flesh is dying. / Can you condemn it, O Lord!, / This painful, insane swaying?...»
«All days are fractured as though by crime, / The passage of hoary time grows rusty, / My body's fettered with rigidity, / My heart oppressed and my blood cold as ice. But there comes lightning: everything can change / In a prophetic dream or wide awake. / The sword of the Archangel touche...»
«Everyone has his special magic words, / And on the surface they mean nothing, / But when they are recalled, they flash and slip right by / And yet our heart begins to laugh and cry. I don't like to repeat them, for I guard / Them from myself, forgetting them on purpose. / But I will meet ...»
«A strange alarm weighs on my heart, / Delirium of premonitions. / I look ahead and the road is dark / And perhaps there is no road. But I cannot touch with any words / What is living in me — and in silence. / I do not dare to feel it: / It's like a dream. A dream within a dream. O, m...»