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.
«After midnight, clean out of your hands, / the heart seizes a sliver of silence. / It lives on the quiet, it’s longing to play; / like it or not, there’s nothing quite like it. Like it or not, it can never be grasped; / so why shiver, like a child off the street, / if after midnight t...»
«Tears of humanity, tears of humanity, / flowing eternally early and late… / Flowing invisibly, flowing in secrecy, / ever abundantly, ever unceasingly — / flowing as rain flows with autumn finality / all through the night like a river in spate.»
«The gay day flames. The grass is still. / Like greedy impotence, poppies rise, / like lips that lust and poison fill, / like wings of scarlet butteflies. The gay day flames... The garden now / is empty. Lust and feast are done. / Like heads of hags, the poppies bow / beneath the bright ...»
«Mist climbs from the lake. / Fields bare after harvest. / Beyond blue hills / the sun rolls to its rest. Splintered, deep in ruts, / the weary road thinks / it cannot be long now / till grey-haired winter. In the misty, resonant grove / I watched yesterday / as a bay moon, like a f...»