All rules are incorrect,
all laws remain perverse,
until they’re firmly set
in well wrought lines of verse.
An age or era will
be merely a stretch of time
without a meaning until
it’s glorified in rhyme.
Until the poet’s «Yes!»,
entrusted by his pen
to print, award success
to this or that — till then
the jury will be out,
the verdict still in doubt.
Все правила — неправильны,
Законы — незаконны,
Пока в стихи не вправлены
И в ямбы — не закованы.
Период станет эрой.
Столетье — веком будет,
Когда его поэмой
Прославят и рассудят.
Пока на лист не ляжет
«Добро!» поэта,
Пока поэт не скажет,
Что он — за это,
До этих пор — не кончен спор.
«Night in my own vast town — night / I slip the sleeping house — take flight / Others take me for daughter, bride / Yet I know only — night. / The July wind brushes my path before / A song from someone’s window — hardly at all / And now the wind will blow — till dawn / T...»
«You imagined me. Such isn’t in the world, / Such in the world can’t be. / Neither the doctor cannot heal, nor the poet, — / The shadow of the ghost the day and night is worrying you. / We met in that incredible year, / When the forces of the world had also dried out. / Everything w...»
«There is a beauty in your wine's dark stream, / In wholesome bread that's rising in the oven, / A woman that you see in anguished dreams / And joyously possess once waiting's over. But how to stake a claim on sunsets' tint, / When silence's joined by an unearthly mercy, / The sky is slowl...»
«O beautiful the wine in love with us! / The good bread in the oven — for us baking! / And that woman, who gave torment and fuss. / Whom now we can enjoy — for just the taking! But what to do with this rose sunset over / A sky becoming cold as hues disperse. / Where silence and unearth...»