Strange boy, I’ve gone mad at last,
Wednesday, around three!
On my ring finger, a wasp
Stung me angrily.
I accidentally squeezed my grip,
And it died, I think,
But sharper than a spindle’s tip
Was its poisoned sting.
Strange one, is it you I’ll mourn,
And will your smile linger?
Look! How beautifully adorned
Is this ring upon my finger!
Я сошла с ума, о мальчик странный,
В среду, в три часа!
Уколола палец безымянный
Мне звенящая оса.
Я её нечаянно прижала,
И, казалось, умерла она,
Но конец отравленного жала,
Был острей веретена.
О тебе ли я заплачу, странном,
Улыбнется ль мне твоё лицо?
Посмотри! На пальце безымянном
Так красиво гладкое кольцо.
«Who hasn't built a house — / Is unworthy of earth. Who hasn't built a house — / Will not become earth: / Thatch — ashes… — I haven't built a house.»
«To Boris Pasternak Di — stance: versts, miles... / Have di — vided, di — vorced us, / To force us to be quiet / In two opposite corners of the world. Di — stance: versts, horizons... / Have unsticked, unsoldered us, / Moving apart, have crucified, / But they didn't know that we...»
«We are living, but can’t feel the land where we stay, / More than ten steps away you can’t hear what we say. / But if people would talk on occasion, / They should mention the Kremlin Caucasian. / His thick fingers are bulky and fat like live-baits, / And his accurate words are as hea...»
«The night, street, chemist shop, & lantern, / The gloomy lighting with no aim. / Live more — some dozens years — the pattern / With no escape will be the same. Death brings new start from the beginning, / The past returns itself: the night, / Canal’s ice ripples with no meaning, / ...»