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.
«Night, street, lamp, pharmacy, / A dull meaningless light. / Live another quarter century — / The same. No exit in sight. You’ll die — again, begin it all, / And as before, all will repeat: / Night, icy ripples on the canal, / Pharmacy, lamp, street.»
«All that is fragile, all that is transient, / you have buried in the centuries. / Like a child you sleep, Ravenna, / in the drowsy arms of eternity. Slaves no longer bring mosaics / through the arches built by Rome. / On the walls of cool basilicas / golden fire is dying down. The roug...»
«In your secret music, / are messages of dark disaster. / A curse on all that’s holy, / happiness’s desecration. And so seductive a power / I’m ready to repeat / that you drew angels from heaven, / enticing them to your feet. And when you scorn faith / that grey-blue halo, / I...»
«Oh, how desperately I want to live: / all reality — immortalise, / the faceless — personify, / to the non-existent — substance give! Life’s smothering dream may crush me, / I may suffocate in dream — / yet some happy child, perhaps, / in the future may say of me: Let’s fo...»