Not the snake fangs, but the stinging
Heartache emptied out my veins.
A quiet girl, I call love, singing
Birdlike in the whitened plains.
The other road closed long ago,
My prince — in a fortress, up high,
Will I betray him? — I don’t know!
But my life on this earth is a lie.
I won’t forget how he bid me farewell
I didn’t cry; I knew it was fate.
To visit his dreams, I’m casting new spells
But my spells are in vain, I’m afraid.
Does he sleep so serenely, locked in,
All because I’m barred and locked out,
Or is the bright-eyed tender Sirin
Already singing to him from a cloud?
Хорони, хорони меня, ветер!
Родные мои не пришли,
Надо мною блуждающий вечер
И дыханье тихой земли.
Я была, как и ты, свободной,
Но я слишком хотела жить.
Видишь, ветер, мой труп холодный,
И некому руки сложить.
Закрой эту черную рану
Покровом вечерней тьмы
И вели голубому туману
Надо мною читать псалмы.
Чтобы мне легко, одинокой,
Отойти к последнему сну,
Прошуми высокой осокой
Про весну, про мою весну.
«There once was a man by the name of Semyonov. / And Semyonov went out for a walk and lost his handkerchief. / And Semyonov started looking for a handkerchief and lost his hat. / And looking for a hat, he lost his jacket. / He began to look for a jacket and lost his boots. / – Yes – sa...»
«I love my country, but with a strange love — / stronger than reason!.. / Neither the fame that blood can buy, / nor the calm pride of confidence, / nor the time-honoured gifts of ignorant days / can stir my soul with dreams of happiness. But what I love — for some strange reason — ...»
«Choke all week in the fumes and air stinking / of fear, for the bare means of life; / spend the Saturday dozing and drinking, / with your arm round an unlovely wife. Then on Sunday by train for an outing, / with a rug to spread out on the grass, / just to doze off again, never doubting, /...»
«The stars glow blue. The trees are swaying. / A routine evening. Routine winter, too. / All is forgiven. Nothing’s forgiven. / Music and gloom. We are all heroes, we are all traitors; / all words are worthless, each and every one. / My dear contemporaries — / having fun?»