They’re void — the celebrations
Of these polled non-dates,
The wordless conversations,
The soundless words’ sets.
The never crossing glances
Are flying courses, wrong,
And just the tears are freightless —
They can flow for long.
And Moscow’s wild-roses
Are of the same mixed stuff…
And later they’ll call all this
“The never-dying love.”
Таинственной невстречи
Пустынны торжества,
Несказанные речи,
Безмолвные слова.
Нескрещенные взгляды
Не знают, где им лечь.
И только слезы рады,
Что можно долго течь.
Шиповник Подмосковья,
Увы! при чем-то тут...
И это все любовью
Бессмертной назовут.
«I splashed some colours from a tumbler / and smeared the drab world with emotion. / I charted on a dish of jelly / the jutting cheekbones of the ocean. / Upon the scales of a tin salmon / I read the calls of lips yet mute. / And you, / could you have played a noc...»
«Windows split the city’s great hell / into tiny hellets — vamps with lamps. / The cars, red devils, exploded their yells / right in your ear, rearing on their rumps. And there, under the signboard with herrings from Kerch / an old man, knocked down, stooping to search / for his specs,...»
«Now, listen! / Surely, if the stars arc lit / there’s somebody who longs for them, / somebody who wants them to shine a bit, / somebody who calls it, that wee speck of spittle, a gem? And overridden / by blizzards of midday dust, / tears in to God, / afraid that it’s too late, / ...»
«You, wallowing through orgy alter orgy, / owning a bathroom and warm, snug toilet! / How dare you read about awards of St. Georgi / from newspaper columns with your blinkers oily?! Do you realise, multitudinous nonentities / thinking how better to fill your gob, / that perhaps just now Pe...»