To fly off, a ripe pear in a storm.
With one leaf clinging on as it must.
Mad devotion! It quitted the branch!
It will choke with its throat full of dust!
A ripe pear, more aslant than the wind.
What devotion! “You'll bray me? You're brash!"
Look! In beauty the thunder-spent storm
Has blazed out, crumbled down — sunk to ash.
And our birthplace is burned to a crisp.
Say, fledgling, where now is your nest?
O my leaf, with the fears of a finch!
My shy silk, why still fight and protest?
Rest in concrement, song, unafraid.
Whither now? All striving is naught.
Ah, “here": mortal adverb! The throb
Of concrescence could give it no thought.
Спелой грушею в бурю слететь
Об одном безраздельном листе.
Как он предан — расстался с суком —
Сумасброд — задохнется в сухом!
Спелой грушею, ветра косей.
Как он предан, — «Меня не затреплет!»
Оглянись: отгремела в красе,
Отплыла, осыпалась — в пепле.
Нашу родину буря сожгла.
Узнаешь ли гнездо свое, птенчик?
О мой лист, ты пугливей щегла!
Что ты бьешься, о шелк мой застенчивый?
О, не бойся, приросшая песнь!
И куда порываться еще нам?
Ах, наречье смертельное «здесь» —
Невдомек содроганью сращенному.
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