Again Chopin’s polonaise is being played,
Oh my God! — how many fans,
And downcast eyes, and tender mouths,
But how close is betrayal, how it rustles.
Music’s shadow flickered on the wall,
But did not touch the greenish moonlight.
Oh, how many times I turned cold here
And someone terrible nodded at me in the window.
...................
And how frightful the gaze of nose-less statues,
But leave and do not fight for me
And do not pray so bitterly about me.
...................
And the voice from 1913
Again shouts: I’m here, I’m yours again...
I need neither fame nor freedom,
I know too well... but nature remains silent,
And it smelled of sepulchral dampness.
Опять приходит полонез Шопена.
О, Боже мой! — как много вееров,
И глаз потупленных, и нежных ртов,
Но как близка, как шелестит измена.
Тень музыки мелькнула по стене,
Но прозелени лунной не задела.
О, сколько раз вот здесь я холодела
И кто-то страшный мне кивал в окне.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
И как ужасен взор безносых статуй,
Но уходи и за меня не ратуй,
И не молись так горько обо мне.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
И голос из тринадцатого года
Опять кричит: я здесь, я снова твой...
Мне ни к чему ни слава, ни свобода,
Я слишком знаю... но молчит природа,
И сыростью пахнуло гробовой.
«How did they kill my grandmother? / I’ll tell you how they killed her. / On morning a tank rolled up to / a building where / one hundred and fifty Jews of our town who, / weightless / from a year’s starvation, / and white / with the knowledge of death, / were gatheredholding th...»
«The gentleman swayed and dozed in his cabin, swaying / to the right, to the left, and back again. / He swayed alone, restless. / He swayed away from life and what he’d lived. / My friend, you are on your way as well, / but where will we be bound tomorrow? / Believe me: these feeble fac...»
«What use are words and what’s a pen, / When on my heart this rock is weighing, / When like a convict’s ball and chain / Another’s burden I’m conveying? / I used to be a city-boy, / And life for me was full of pleasure, / But now in deserts without joy / The graves I dig are all...»
«Today I was watching as, heavy, your tears they were tumbling, / Upon the black chiffon for ages they glistened and lay, / And how I then wanted to tell you, in spite of my mumbling, / About the white roses that blossom on bush’s green sway. I know that you cannot but beautifully weep on yo...»