The fifth act of the drama
Blows in the wind of autumn,
Each flower-bed in the park seems
A fresh grave, we have finished
The funeral-feast, and there’s nothing
To do. Why then do I linger
As if I am expecting
A miracle? It’s the way a feeble
Hand can hold fast to a heavy
Boat for a long time by the pier
As one is saying goodbye
To the person who’s left standing.
Пятым действием драмы
Веет воздух осенний,
Каждая клумба в парке
Кажется свежей могилой.
Справлена чистая тризна,
И больше нечего делать,
Что же я медлю, словно
Скоро свершится чудо?
Так тяжелую лодку долго
У пристани слабой рукою
Удерживать можно, прощаясь
С тем, кто остался на суше.
«It’s already evening. / The dew sparkles on the nettles / I stand in the road / learning on a willow tree. The light of the full moon / is falling on our roof / Somewhere far off / I hear the song of a nightingale. Like a stove in the winter / everything is nice and warm. / And t...»
«There where the sunrise light / waters the cabbage rows / a young maple tree is sucking / at its mother’s pale green udder.»
«In the mist the flood water / licks the river silt. / The moon has dropped / her yellow reins. The red haystacks in the fields / look like churches. / With a mournful croaking / the black woodcocks call me to all-night mass. The dark blue grove / conceals your poverty. / I’ll pra...»
«White bird cherry blossoms are / strewn on the wet green grass like snow. / In the fields rooks walk along the rows / looking for shoots. The silky grass bends low. / The pines smell of resin. / Oh, you meadows and forests, / how spring stupefies me. Secret news gives me joy. / My ...»