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?
«Black bread and a faithful wife / Have made us anemic, undone us for life... Our years have been tested by hoof and by stone, / The waters we drink of with wormwood are strewn, / The taste of the wormwood is stinging our lips... / The knife does not fit the grip of our fists, / The pen do...»
«The sign says hospital — a blue haze wraps it now. / The veterinary goes over a cow. The hand painted with manganese / Feels first the udders, then the strong butt of / The tail, and soon the cow / Beneath the bull will stretch and howl with love. / They clear the nuptial circle with t...»
«Fire, the rope, the bullet and the ax, / Like servants bowed and followed where we went, / And in each drop that fell a deluge slept, / Pebbles grew into mountains where they lay, / And in a small twig trodden underfoot / Whole forests rustled, their black arms outspread. At table falseho...»
«Our rooms are turned to rolling wagons / With wheels that creak on roads of air; / And down below, the moony water / Is playing gently with green hair. We travel over crystal bridges, / Across the earth, across the sky. / Its red cheek pressed against our windows, / The sun sings out as...»