Now it’s a serpent curling itself
into a little circle,
a magic circle, cast
as a spell to bind your heart.
Now it’s a dove huddled on the white sill
of the little window you leave open a crack
in winter, to cool the room
when the woodstove overheats the house.
It remains there whole days,
softly warbling.
Now it glitters like frost, shines like ice,
then it seems as soft as a drowsing flower—
but surely, obscurely, implacably
it proceeds, unseen,
carries you further from joy, from calm,
for it knows how to wheedle, sweetly, deeply
as a prayer or the sob of a violin,
and it knows how to scarily suggest
that very feeling, that very meaning,
in someone’s still unfamiliar smile.
То змейкой, свернувшись клубком,
У самого сердца колдует,
То целые дни голубком
На белом окошке воркует,
То в инее ярком блеснёт,
Почудится в дреме левкоя...
Но верно и тайно ведёт
От радости и от покоя.
Умеет так сладко рыдать
В молитве тоскующей скрипки,
И страшно её угадать
В ещё незнакомой улыбке.