Not the lyre of a lover
I’ll carry through my land
The rattle of a leper
Will sing in my hand.
Не лирою влюбленного
Иду пленять народ —
Трещотка прокаженного
В моей руке поет.
Успеете наахаться
И воя, и кляня.
Я научу шарахаться
Вас, смелых, от меня.
Я не искала прибыли
И славы не ждала,
Я под крылом у гибели
Все тридцать лет жила.
«Are you alive and well still, momma? / I am alright. Greetings. Tonight / I hope your cottage is still bathing / In that ineffable evening light. I've heard you're awful worried for me, / That you've been hiding your distress, / And often walk out on the highway / In your old-fashione...»
«I dreamed I was deathly-exhausted, / Almost a denizen of the earth-grave, / Unhearing as my end was nearing. A former friend approached my bed. / Mumbling curses was what he said / Having pounded me on my head.»
«Clear-etched lines of mountains; / The pale-untrustworthy sea… / My excited vision un-curtained, / Drowns in the shoreless leas. In my hidden hopes created / The natural world is ideal, / And all is ashes that is real: / The water, the steppe, the cliffs.»
«Do not cry and do not think: / The past – there’s no such thing! / With a friendly greeting / The light of day breaks in. Falling asleep you ended, / And in waking resurrect. / Look at the sky extended / Without a thought or care. Eternity – a wish fulfilled, / All that is bitt...»