The piano, trembling, makes the lips grow dry.
This frenzy cuts you down and overthrows.
You whisper: Dearest! — No, o no! I cry —
Here, with the music?! — Yet, can one be closer,
Than in the twilight, flinging chords in sets —
Like diaries into the fire — in sets, complete?
O wondrous understanding, nod assent —
Assent, and be amazed! — for you are free.
I do not hold you back. Go, comfort, help.
Go to the others. “Werther”1 has been written.
The air itself has now the smell of death.
To open windows is to cut the wrist.
____
1. Goethe’s novel The Sorrows of Young Werther (1774).
Рояль дрожащий пену с губ оближет.
Тебя сорвёт, подкосит этот бред.
Ты скажешь: — милый! — Нет, — вскричу я, — нет!
При музыке?! — Но можно ли быть ближе,
Чем в полутьме, аккорды, как дневник,
Меча в камин комплектами, погодно?
О пониманье дивное, кивни,
Кивни, и изумишься! - ты свободна.
Я не держу. Иди, благотвори.
Ступай к другим. Уже написан Вертер,
А в наши дни и воздух пахнет смертью:
Открыть окно — что жилы отворить.
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«1 In a shady ring my eyes / She surrounded — insomnia. / With a shady wreath insomnia / Did my eyes bind. At night — the same! / To idols don't pray. / Idol-worshipper — I'll give / Your secret away. To you — day's not enough, / Fire of sun above! You pale-faced one, we...»
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«After a sleepless night the body gets weaker, / It becomes dear and not yours — and nobody's. / Just like a seraph you smile to people / And arrows moan in the slow arteries. After a sleepless night the arms get weaker / And deeply equal to you are the friend and foe. / Smells like Flor...»