"And Michal the daughter of Saul loved David,
And Saul said: I will give her to him, and she will be a snare."
Book of Kings
And the young lad plays for the mad king,
And he smites the pitilessness of night,
And he loudly hails the triumph of dawn,
And he stifles dread phantoms that lying in wait.
And the king with favor speaks to him:
“In you, youth, burns a wondrous flame,
And for such a medicine’s rare balm
I give both my daughter and my kingdom.”
At the singer, the king’s daughter looks down
She has need of neither singing nor crown,
In her soul is grief and resentment,
And yet, Michal wants — David.
Paler than death, her lips are clenched.
In her eyes, green, frenzy thrills and glints,
Garments are aglow, and harmony rings
On her wrist, with her every movement.
Like secret, like dream, like foremother Lilith!
Words are spoken deeper than her will:
“Most likely, they gave poison in my drink,
And disoriented my soul with darkness
My sauciness—now my shamefulness!
A vagrant, an upstart, a shepherd!
Not one of the grandees and courtiers,
Can compare, alas, to him!
And the sun’s beams... and the night’s stars...
And this trembling cold...”
И возлюби Мелхола, дочь Саулова, Давида,
И рече Саул: дам ему ю, и будет ему в соблазн.
Книга Царств
И отрок играет безумцу царю,
И ночь беспощадную рушит,
И громко победную кличет зарю,
И призраки ужаса душит.
И царь благосклонно ему говорит:
"Огонь в тебе, юноша, дивный горит,
И я за такое лекарство
Отдам тебе дочку и царство".
А царская дочка глядит на певца,
Ей песен не нужно, не нужно венца,
В душе ее скорбь и обида,
Но хочет Мелхола — Давида.
Бледнее, чем мертвая, рот ее сжат,
В зеленых глазах исступленье,
Сияют одежды, и стройно звенят
Запястья при каждом движеньи.
Как тайна, как сон, как праматерь Лилит!
Не волей своею она говорит:
"Наверно, с отравой мне дали питье,
И мой помрачается дух,
Бесстыдство мое — униженье мое,
Бродяга, разбойник, пастух!
Зачем же никто из придворных вельмож,
Увы, на него не похож!..
А солнца лучи... а звезды в ночи...
А эта холодная дрожь..."
«In my delirium, only the endlessness / Of some sharp lines plagues me, / And the bell incessantly tolls / As a clock, striking eternity. It seems to me, that after death it’s how, / With an agonising hope of resurrection, / The eyes get fixed on the surrounding murk, / Seeking the old...»
«Birth of the word is by agony molded, / Through earthly life it is quietly going, / It is a stranger, which drinks from the golden / Pitcher the drops of the savages’ mourning. Go to Nature! The Nature is hostile, / All here is frightening, all is in fullness, / There are the trumpets...»
«In the days when the God eternal / Was declining face to the new world, / By the Word they stopped the sun’s inferno, / And destroyed the towns by the Word. And an eagle was falling at the ground, / Stars were backing to the moon in fright, / If, as made from orange flames a cloud, / ...»
«Long ago, when the world unfolded, / As Almighty God would drop His face, / With the word the burning sun was halted / And the cities would be laid to waste. And the eagle would be stopped from flying, / And the stars clung to the moon in fright, / If abruptly, like a scarlet fire, ...»