To Yuniya Anrep
Was my fate altered to such an extent,
Or did the game end without warning?
Where are those winters when I went to bed
At six o’clock in the morning?
I’ve started living on a wild shore,
Severely and calmly, these days.
I simply cannot utter anymore
Neither an idle nor a tender phrase.
I can’t believe that Christmastide is nearing.
The steppe is shining green so tenderly.
The sultry sunrays lap the shore, appearing
Like warm waves from the sea.
When joy would weary me, it seemed
That shivers overtook me whole,
And of such peacefulness I dreamed
And just like that is how I deemed
The posthumously drifting soul.
Юнии Анреп
Судьба ли так моя переменилась,
Иль вправду кончена игра?
Где зимы те, когда я спать ложилась
В шестом часу утра?
По-новому, спокойно и сурово,
Живу на диком берегу.
Ни праздного, ни ласкового слова
Уже промолвить не могу.
Не верится, что скоро будут святки.
Степь трогательно зелена.
Сияет солнце. Лижет берег гладкий
Как будто теплая волна.
Когда от счастья томной и усталой
Бывала я, то о такой тиши
С невыразимым трепетом мечтала
И вот таким себе я представляла
Посмертное блуждание души.
«This will happen, happen, / no way of avoiding this: / the birds will shrill above the town, / orchestras will play, / the air will grow more limpid, / the guns’ thud will be forgotten, / and the army of the frontier / will march home singing. / This will happen, happen — / I b...»
«All the earth, the whole planet, / is one big rush over there... / The road’s as taut / and vibrant as a string. / Wherever they may go, all / are bent on going there, / and no one comes this way, / but always over there, there. I’m left here all alone, / left simply alone. / ...»
«Protect us poets, and guard us well. / What’s left? — a century, a year, a week, / An hour, three minutes, two, nothing at all... / Protect us, but only if all support the one. Protect us though we sin, have joy or none. / Our D’Anthes walks somewhere, young and handsome. / He’s h...»
«Don’t believe in war, my boy, / don’t believe, it’s quite depressing, / it’s as depressing, boy, / as a pair of boots that pinch. Those swift romantic steeds of yours, / they are good for nothing here; / you’re as exposed as an open palm, / and the bullets’ only target.»