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.
«Pavillions spread over the square, / The maple leaves kiss the stars. / It's night — a celebration there, / Merriment and festivity in the park. / But when a pyrotechnist hurls / A silvery light from tree-tops to sky, / Poet, don't put your trust / In the night's fantastic bursts. /...»
«Behind an old house, a forest, / In front, a field of oats, / In the sky, a cloud, a silver sphere, / Unprecedented beauty boasts. / With edges vaguely lilac-tinted, / The center threatening and bright... / A wing of a wounded swan somewhere / Drifts slowly out of sight. / And down b...»
«Poets, you should love painting! / For it alone / Can portray on canvas / Signs of an unsettled soul. Remember how Struiskaya, / Draped in satin, looked at us / Out of Rokotov's portrait / From the depths of the past? Her eyes were two clouds, / Half-smiling, half-weeping, / Like t...»
«He used to come here till he donned gold braid, / a good topcoat on, self-controlled, stoop-shouldered. / Arresting these cafe habitues – / he started snuffing out world culture somewhat later – / seemed sweet revenge (on Time, that is, not them) / for all the lack of cash, the sneer...»