There’s none equal to me — he used to cite.
For him, I’m not a woman of the real,
But winter sun’s always relieving light,
And a wild song of his land, so dear.
When I am dead, he would not feel a grief,
The crazy, would not cry, “Return, my sole!”
But understand: a body cannot live
Without a sun, without a song — a soul…
And what is now?
Сказал, что у меня соперниц нет.
Я для него не женщина земная,
А солнца зимнего утешный свет
И песня дикая родного края.
Когда умру, не станет он грустить,
Не крикнет, обезумевши: «Воскресни!»
Но вдруг поймет, что невозможно жить
Без солнца телу и душе без песни.
...А что теперь?
«Thirty years now Russia’s lived in fetters, / in Magadan, in Kolyma — / but the Russia that will live for ever / is the one now dying in Kolyma.»
«You will not grasp her with your mind / or cover with a common label, / for Russia is one of a kind — / believe in her, if you are able...»
«The heat was fierce. Great forests were on fire. / Time dragged its feet in dust. A cock was crowing / in an adjacent lot. As I pushed open / my garden-gate I saw beside the road / a wandering Serb asleep upon a bench / his back against the palings. He was lean / and very black, and dow...»
«Fierce heat. The forests were afire. Time / Dragged on dully. At the neighbor’s dacha / A rooster crowed. I went out of the gate. / There, on a bench, leaning against the fence, / A Serb, a drifter, dozed, black and skinny. / A heavy silver cross hung / On his half-bare breast. Drops o...»