Dreadful! It drips and it listens —
whether it's all alone in the world
crushing a twig like lace at the window,
or is someone watching?
Palpable, though, is the pressure
of porous earth's taut swellings,
and far off, audible as in August,
midnight ripens in fields.
No, no sound, no witness,
Convincing there's no one there,
back it goes to its game of rolling
down roofs and across gutters.
I'll lift it up to my lips and listen —
whether I'm all alone in the world,
ready to burst out in sobs if I need to,
or is someone watching?
Silence. Not a leaf moving.
No dot of light, just weird
gulps and splashings about in slippers,
the lulls full of sighs and tears.
Ужасный! — Капнет и вслушается:
Всё он ли один на свете
Мнет ветку в окне, как кружевце.
Или есть свидетель.
Но давится внятно от тягости
Отеков — земля ноздревая,
И слышно: далеко, как в августе,
Полуночь в полях назревает.
Ни звука. И нет соглядатаев.
В пустынности удостоверясь,
Берется за старое — скатывается
По кровле, за желоб и через.
К губам поднесу и прислушаюсь:
Всё я ли один на свете,
Готовый навзрыд при случае,
Или есть свидетель.
Но тишь. И листок не шелохнется.
Ни признака зги, кроме жутких
Глотков, и плескания в шлепанцах,
И вздохов и слез в промежутке.
«Covered with a glory that had lost it luster, / Ringed by cretins, tricksters, hypocrites, / The two-headed eagle1 did not fall in battle / But died a horrible, degraded death. Grinning, one man said: "He made it!" / Another sobbed: "Lord, forgive..." / But no one guessed it was a stuffe...»
«Spring said nothing to me — it couldn't. / Perhaps it was at a loss for words. / But down the murky length of the station / Lights came fleetingly to life. Only, from the platform someone greeted / Someone in the dark blue night. / Only, on my miserable head / A crown shone faintly.»
«They'll not exterminate you now, / As that mad leader dreamt they might. / Fate or God may lend a hand, / But the Russian man is tired... Tired of suffering, of vainglory — / It's time to enjoy oblivion. / Tired of rushing blindly forward — / It's time, perhaps, for demolition... ....»
«I imagine everything wrapped in a beatific mist: / Statues, arches, gardens, flowerbeds. / The dark waves of the lovely river... Once the memories start to flow, / it means ... But perhaps all this is nonsense. Like a wild beast from its lair, crouching, / Sick, I crawl into the cold of Pa...»