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.
«For joy’s sake, from my hands, / take some honey and some sun, / as Persephone’s bees told us. Not to be freed, the unmoored boat. / Not to be heard, fur-booted shadows. / Not to be silenced, life’s dark terrors. Now we only have kisses, / dry and bristling like bees, / that die ...»
«Take — for the sake of joy — out of my palms / a little sunlight and a little honey, / as we were told to by Persephone’s bees. You can’t untie a boat that isn’t moored, / nor can you hear a shadow shod in fur, / nor — in this dense life — overpower fear. The only thing that...»
«The flowers say good-bye to me, / They bend their heads and bow low down / Which means that I will never see / Her lovely face and my home town. / / Well, that"s the way it is, my love! / I saw them all in habitation, / I take this deathly trepidation / For tender feeling, still a...»
«I will not be wandering about / Trampling goosefoot in the bushes any more; / And I know you"ll never come around / In my dreams, oat-haired, as before. / / You were tender beautiful and fair, / Berry juice upon your skin, so light. / You resembled rosy sunset glare, / And, like...»