In the early evening, the suspended bowls
Of the pale street lamps grate.
Brighter and more festive grows
The whirling spray of flakes.
And through the softly falling snow,
Smoothly quickening their pace,
Under the dark blue web, as though
Sensing pursuit, the horses race.
The footman in his gilded livery
Stands unmoving behind the sleigh,
And the tsar with bright, vacant eyes
Gazes about him in a strange way.
Зажженных рано фонарей
Шары висячие скрежещут,
Все праздничнее, все светлей
Снежинки, пролетая блещут.
И, ускоряя ровный бег,
Как бы в предчувствии погони,
Сквозь мягко падающий снег
Под синей сеткой мчатся кони.
И раззолоченный гайдук
Стоит недвижно за санями,
И странно ты глядишь вокруг
Пустыми светлыми глазами.
«The senseless years' extinguished mirth and laughter / Oppress me like some hazy morning-after. / But sadness of days past, as alcohol — / The more it age, the stronger grip the soul. / My course is dull. The future's troubled ocean / Forebodes me toil, misfortune and commotion. But no,...»
«Extinguished gaiety of years, which sunk in madness, / Presses on me like a hangover restless. / But in my soul, foregoing pine / Becomes through time still stronger, like a wine. / My way is sad. Predicts me toile and woe – / The sea of future in a wrath and row. But, oh, my friends, I...»
«His eyes are like faded burdock. / He clasps the coins in his hands. / He was a glorious shepherd, / Now he sings of times past. / And in the corner, an old woman / Sheds tears in front of an icon. / She used to be his beloved, / His drunk nectar in a green meadow. / Dry dust coats t...»
«For A. Sakharov / / The storm has passed. Few of us survived. / Many are missing from friendship’s roll call. / I’ve returned to the orphaned region / I haven’t seen in eight years. / / Who should I call to? With whom should I share / The sad joy that I’m still alive? / ...»