If the moon on the skies does not roam,
But cools, like a seal above,
My dead husband enters the home
To read the letters of love.
He remembers the box, made of oak,
With the lock, very secret and odd,
And spreads through a floor the stroke
Of his feet in the iron bond.
He watches the times of the meetings
And the signatures' blurry set.
Hasn't had he sufficiently grievings
And pains in this word until that?
Если в небе луна не бродит,
А стынет — ночи печать...
Мертвый мой муж приходит
Любовные письма читать.
В шкатулке резного дуба
Он помнит тайный замок,
Стучат по паркету грубо
Шаги закованных ног.
Сверяет часы свиданий
И подписей смутный узор.
Разве мало ему страданий,
Что вынес он до сих пор?
«We waited commonly for sleep or even death. / The instances were wearisome as ages. / But suddenly the wind's refreshing breath / Touched through the window the Holy Bible's pages: An old man goes there — who's now all white-haired — / With rapid steps and merry eyes, alone, / He ...»
«Darling boy, You are so merry, your smile is bright and clean, / Don't ask for this perfect happiness, poison for all our worlds… / You don't know, You don't know what defines this polish violin, / What secret horror hides in these initial accords. A someone who takes her body in his imp...»
«Pretty boy, / you are so merry / and your smile's — so light, so sunny. / Don't you ask me for this passion / that is poison to the worlds. / You don't know, don't know how dreadful / is this Magic Violin, sonny, / And how gloomy is the horror / of the one who strikes the cords. H...»
«I was given a body – what to do with it now, / One so unique and my own somehow? For this quiet joy, to breathe and to be, / Whom should I thank, somebody tell me? I’m the gardener, I’m the flower as well, / I’m not alone in world’s dungeon cell. On the glass of eternity, I’ve a...»