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.
«There are twins. For the earthborn / they are gods, Death and Sleep, / like brother and sister wondrously akin, / Death's the gloomier, Sleep is gentler. But there are two more twins: / there are no finer twins in the world, / and there's no fascination more fearsome / than he who's sur...»
«The telephone rang. / “Hello! Who’s there?” / “The Polar Bear.” / “What do you want?” / “I’m calling for the Elephant.” / “What does he want?” / “He wants a little Peanut brittle.” / “Peanut brittle!.. / And for whom?” “It’s for his little Elephan...»
«From the cycle LENIN I Lenin has the spirit of an Old Believer, / Intones his decrees like a priest, / And looks to the Pomorian Responses1 / For the source of all our grief. Now the land belongs to the peasants, / The Church is no longer a state serf. / Now a bright new word chimes for...»
«And while above Tsarskoye Selo1 / Akhmatova’s song and tears were pouring, / I, unwinding the skein of the sorceress, / Plodded through the desert like a sleepy corpse2, / There where impossibility lay dying: / An exhausted mummer Determined to break through. / And meanwhile in dark ca...»