To Love, — to leave, — with the thunder not ceasing,
Trampled by boredom not even knowing the boot’s tread,
Tripping over a hedgehog, and then, for good, repaying
The cowberry’s evil with a gossamer’s web.
To drink from the bough while the face
Recoils from Prussian blue lashes:
“What is this echo?!” — on to the end
Moving the wrong way, imprinted with kisses.
Like marching — one plods along loaded with turnips.
At sunset to know that the stars start to shine
To scare off the sun and the oat-laden carts,
And to bring Margarete to convulsions.
To renounce speech, subscribing
To storms of tears in the eyes of a Valkyrie,
And in the full glow of the sky to grow dumb,
Drowning in the ether like a mast in a forest.
Gradually, amid thorns, people rake up the torn
Events of the years, like lumps of spruce:
On the highway; in a procession to a Tavern;
In the light; they suffered cold; they ate fish.
And collapsing time begins to sing: “Hoary,
I walk, and strengthless, I fall. At last
The city’s pressed down with goose-grass,
Awash in the tears of soldiers’ wives.
In moonless shadows of a long threshing barn
Or in a fire with groceries and a water bottle,
Most likely, he — gray-bearded, worn,
Will die in his tracks like an animal.”
As I was singing, I died as I sang.
And dying, I reached back to grasp
At her hand, like a boomerang,
For — remembering much — forgiveness.
Любить — идти, — не смолкнул гром,
Топтать тоску, не знать ботинок,
Пугать ежей, платить добром
За зло брусники с паутиной.
Пить с веток, бьющих по лицу,
Лазурь с отскоку полосуя:
«Так это эхо?» — и к концу
С дороги сбиться в поцелуях.
Как с маршем, бресть с репьем на всем.
К закату знать, что солнце старше
Тех звезд и тех телег с овсом,
Той Маргариты и корчмарши.
Терять язык, абонемент
На бурю слез в глазах валькирий,
И, в жар всем небом онемев,
Топить мачтовый лес в эфире.
Разлегшись, сгресть, в шипах, клочьми
Событья лет, как шишки ели:
Шоссе; сошествие Корчмы;
Светало; зябли; рыбу ели.
И, раз свалясь, запеть: «Седой,
Я шел и пал без сил. Когда-то
Давился город лебедой,
Купавшейся в слезах солдаток.
В тени безлунных длинных риг,
В огнях баклаг и бакалеен,
Наверное и он — старик
И тоже следом околеет».
Так пел я, пел и умирал.
И умирал и возвращался
К ее рукам, как бумеранг,
И — сколько помнится — прощался.
«There's Prince Diego, falling in a love, / He dozed and he laid his head midst table's stuff, / He lost his goblet, cast from silver's milk, / And freed his jacket of a crimson silk. And he is seeing the transparent stream, / And on the stream — the boat white as steam, / In which the ...»
«Here I'm alone in evening hour calm, / I'll only think of you, I feel no qualm. I'll take up book but what I'll read is "she", / And soul again is drunk, distraught with thee. I'll throw myself on old and creaky bed, / The pillow burns... No, I won't sleep, I'll tread. I'll walk to window, ...»
«All of us — righteous and sinners, / Born in prison, raised at the altar, / All of us are funny actors / In the theater of the Creator. The Lord sits on His throne, / Merrily follows the show. / Brightly on His sumptuous gown / Sparkles and golden stars glow. Oh, how easy and pleasan...»
«All deserts are one tribe, from the beginning / of time, but Arabia, Syria, Gobi — / they're only ripples of the vast Sahara / wave that roared its satanic spite. The Red Sea heaves, and the Persian Gulf, / and Pamir stands thick with snow, / but Sahara's sand-floods / run straight to...»