We had thought we were beggars,
with nothing at all,
but as loss followed loss
and each day
became a day of memorial,
we began to make songs
about the Lord’s generosity
and our bygone wealth.
Думали: нищие мы, нету у нас ничего,
А как стали одно за другим терять,
Так, что сделался каждый день
Поминальным днем, —
Начали песни слагать
О великой щедрости Божьей
Да о нашем бывшем богатстве.
«Don’t give me all of your time, / don’t question me so often. / With eyes so true and faithful / don’t try and catch my hands. Don’t follow in the Spring / my steps through pools of rain. / I know that of our meeting / nothing will come again. You think it’s pride that makes ...»
«We now observe the rules of winter, / and on the snow impose design / and, in play restraining laughter, / we scoop the white snow from the ground. And then, as if foreseeing ill, / pedestrians crowd about the fence; / an anxious question gnaws at them: / what are they doing, this odd c...»
«Blue was the morning. It was early yet. / Tormented Moscow was still sleeping. / Through the windows, / through the double panes, / Bells suddenly could be heard ringing. And glancing at the sky in fear, / I saw, / through the mist there / from afar, black monks jostling their way... ...»
«By the Moscow River, in Gluboki Street, / Dulcineas peer from windows, / waiting for their Don Quixotes to return / from work, / and from bubbling barley / they compose soups on a blue flame. / Time’s aged them slightly — cares weigh on their eyelids, but... / the Don Quixotes are ...»