And we’ve forgotten till doomsdays,
In the wild capital — our prison —
The towns, steppes, dawns and lakes
Of our great land, as if in treason.
In a bloody circle, day and night,
We’re pined by the abusive leisure…
And none to help us in our plight,
Because we’ve stayed at Home, treasured,
Because, with love fully obsessed,
Instead of liberty, that honors,
We have preserved for ourselves
Its palaces, its flames and waters.
They’re closer — the other times.
And deathly wind cools hearts, our own,
But Peter’s-city, to all us,
Will be the sanctified tombstone.
И мы забыли навсегда,
Заключены в столице дикой,
Озера, степи, города
И зори родины великой.
В кругу кровавом день и ночь
Долит жестокая истома...
Никто нам не хотел помочь
За то, что мы остались дома,
За то, что, город свой любя,
А не крылатую свободу,
Мы сохранили для себя
Его дворцы, огонь и воду.
Иная близится пора,
Уж ветер смерти сердце студит,
Но нам священный град Петра
Невольным памятником будет.
«Falling snow leaves the world outnumbered. / At such times, the Pinkertons lose their mind, / and you catch yourself wherever you’ve wandered / by the prints that you've left behind. / Don’t expect a reward, this will not get you far; / the precinct’s din is reduced to naught. / ...»
«I was but what you’d brush / with your palm, what your leaning / brow would hunch to in evening’s / raven-black hush. I was but what your gaze / in that dark could distinguish: / a dim shape to begin with, / later — features, a face. It was you, on my right, / on my left, with ...»
«I’ve raised a statue to myself that’s some! / To shameful century’s its back to run. / To its lost love that’s turned with stony face. / Like cycle wheel is bent its stony chest. / And buttocks is to sea of half-truth faced. / And if I would with nice landscape well dressed, / Wh...»
«In villages God does not live only / in icon corners, as the scoffers claim, / but plainly, everywhere. He sanctifies / each roof and pan, divides each double door. / In villages God acts abundantly- / cooks lentils in iron pots on Saturdays, / dances a lazy jig in flickering flames, / ...»