Yes, I had loved those meetings of the nights —
Upon small table a glass filled with ice,
Above black coffee thick and smelly steam,
From the red heater heavy winter heat,
The stinging mirth of literary parable
And first look of the friend, helpless and terrible.
А. Л.
Да, я любила их, те сборища ночные, —
На маленьком столе стаканы ледяные,
Над черным кофеем пахучий, зимний пар,
Камина красного тяжелый, зимний жар,
Веселость едкую литературной шутки
И друга первый взгляд, беспомощный и жуткий.
«Drowsily an aged pine / rustles in her sleep. / Leaning on her coarse-grained trunk / Here I stand and speak. / "little pine-tree, just my age, / Give me of your strength! / Not the usual nine months, / forty years I carried, / forty years I had been bearing, / forty years I had be...»
«Everything became conjoined – the very air / Around you to your very stars, the belt you wear, / Each of those stubborn springy steps of yours / And every line of your awkward verse. You – who were never bailed out / Are free to burn and free to squander. / Imagine this: we’ve never...»
«Each of your verses is a boil of poison / Like a life that has been burned by sin. / I breathe your verses although I should not, / It’s forbidden to breathe them in. You are a mad poor little boy / Who brought a farewell noise of bells / From some white funeral to spoil / The banquet...»
«How I want to breathe into my verse / All of this world, that changes its countenance: / The ungraspable movement of grass, / The momentary and vague magnificence / Of trees, the itchy and winged / Dry sand, chirping like birds. All this world is beautiful and humpbacked, / Like a tree ...»