In Kievan temple of the divine wisdom
Falling to knees, I before thee did vow
That your way will be my way
Wherever, wherever it will go.
Thus heard Yaroslav in a white coffin
And angels made of gold in his stead.
Like pigeons, weave the simple words
And are now near the sunny heads.
If I get weak, I dream of an icon
And ten steps on it, all are blessed.
In menacing voice of the Sofian ringing
I hear the sound of your unrest.
И в Киевском храме Премудрости Бога,
Припав к солее, я тебе поклялась,
Что будет моею твоя дорога,
Где бы она ни вилась.
То слышали ангелы золотые
И в белом гробу Ярослав.
Как голуби, вьются слова простые
И ныне у солнечных глав.
И если слабею, мне снится икона
И девять ступенек на ней.
И в голосе грозном софийского звона
Мне слышится голос тревоги твоей.
«We walk along the streets like in a dream. / We look at women, and we coffee drink. / But real words we still can not reveal, / And the approximate we do not feel. What shall we do? Go back to Petersburg? / Or fall in love? Or blow the Operá? / Or simply lie in bed — which’s cold, / ...»
«The alarming roll of a drum / Stirs the mist of an early morn, / Joan of Arc on a galloping horse / To besieged Orleans is borne. To the clinking of wine glasses, / To the strains of an old minuet, / In the Petit Trianon* passes / Care-free life of Marie Antoinette... A small lamp ligh...»
«Beside their big fire they had laid themselves down, / Their powerless bodies prostrate. / A bullet had gone through the temple of one / To home in the head of his mate. The hands of the two had locked in a vice / The now dead machine gun they’d manned, / And neither the storm nor the s...»
«I’ve never been even once in a bar-room, / I’ve never drunk whisky neat with sailors, / I’ll never, I guess, on a horse go charging / Across the desert steppes of Arabia. I'm not cut out for hauling in canvas, / For waving an oar, braving stormy weather. / She loves a young salt, do...»