Why did you pollute the water,
with vileness adulterate my bread?
Why did you make the final freedom
into a den of thieves instead?
Was it because I did not mock
the bitter fate of friends?
Was it because I’d not betrayed
my piteous native land?
So be it. There can be no poet
without a butcher and a butcher’s block.
Weeping we go, with guttering candle,
garbed in penitential smock.
Зачем вы отравили воду
И с грязью мой смешали хлеб?
Зачем последнюю свободу
Вы превращаете в вертеп?
За то, что я не издевалась
Над горькой гибелью друзей?
За то, что я верна осталась
Печальной родине моей?
Пусть так. Без палача и плахи
Поэту на земле не быть.
Нам покаянные рубахи,
Нам со свечой идти и выть.
«Two girls were tossing dahlias while passing. / They tossed them sparingly upon the lane. / The women shook their heads and said with sadness: / "Bouquets are pricey now — it's such a shame..." / / The street looked on with hungry discomposure. / They watched the little girls who led ...»
«Horses do know how to swim, but / They're not very good. They don't go far. / / One more thing that's easy to remember: / "Gloria" means "glory" or "grandeur". / / Far across the sea a ship was sailing, / Proud of its bold title and its might. / / In the hold, a thousand horses ...»
«We've still got some time left to mend it: / A whole quarter left, nothing less, — / To mend and unbend and defend it, / Reinstitute plebs and noblesse. / / But I'd rather not have another. / I carved my own way in this one, / And if I could do it all over, / I'd do what I've alre...»
«I think of the dawn of your glory, / Of the dawn of your days, / When you awoke from sleep as a demon / And a god for mankind. / / I think of the way your brows / Were knitted above the torches that were your eyes, / And of the ancient blood that, like lava, / Flowed inside your vei...»