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.
«My memory weighs down hard upon my shoulder, / When I’m in paradise I’ll weep for earth, / And when we meet past-uttered words won’t moulder — / For what they’re worth. Where hosts of graceful harping angels flutter, / Where lilies bloom as choir of children plays, / Where all i...»
«As I die "I was" won’t be my plea. / Pity I’ll not waste, nor blame apportion. / More important things there are, you see, / Than love’s deeds and passion’s wild distortion. You — whose beating wing is deep in me, / Guilty culprit of my inspiration — / Hear then my instructi...»
«My Lord and God! I crave a wonder / This minute, at the break of day! / Oh let my life be rent asunder / While it’s a book for me, I pray. You’re wise, so you won’t strictly tell me: / "Be patient, it’s not over yet." / But you too much have lavished on me! / My craving appetite...»
«Patient, patient, like gravel’s grind, / Patient, patient, like death in mind, / Patient, patient, like news unwinding, / Patient, patient, like vengeance finding — Wait! Awaiting you (tight, fingers’ plait — / Like a serf by grand queen when bidden). / Patient, patient, like rhym...»