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.
«All trousers are cut in the same way, / Same goes for whiskers, overcoats, even pots. / I am the same as everyone on the street / And blend in completely at the corner... But I would not trade in my personality / To become a member of it all, or it of me — / I wrap myself entirely in in...»
«One time, having been tossed on the edge of all, / That was existing, I felt in my body / The presence of a shadow, that earlier / Was moving somewhere my life so firmly. Nobody knew, the only note-book marked that, / I'd blown out candles in the moment, / Which for the speech creation we...»
«to Akhmatova You shut out my sun in the sky, / The stars are all in your palm! / Ah, if only, the door slamming wide, / Like a wind could I in come! / / And babble, and hotly blush, / And down the shy eyes cast, / And a half-sob hush — / Like a child — forgiven at last.»
«The bread’s poisoned and the air’s drunk up. / How hard it is to treat wounds; / Joseph sold into Egypt / couldn’t have suffered more! Under a starry sky, Bedouins, / eyes closed and on horseback, / shape private epics / about the day they’ve lived through. They don’t need in...»