Dante’s tomb. Quietly and solemnly
we enter here — tempo andante.
We can’t well explain it,
but we understand: Dante... Dante...
Dante — Dante, and yet we are no more
than what we are. There’s a frontier here.
Feeling no envy, pain, we enter
the tomb, crumpling our caps.
Yes, Dante. He has remained,
and we, whose fame lasts two, three
years,
dare not throw down in his vicinity
the lots we drew.
While the guides with gusto
tell us at long length about his fate,
we think of ourselves
with vanity
and disrespect.
In the very depths of our being,
the luminary glows of a sudden:
the sun shines out in unexpected splendor,
the sun which was his guiding light.
Гробиница Данте. Сюда мы входам
тихо и важно в темпе анданте.
Причин для этого не находим,
но понимаем: Данте — Данте...
Данте — Данте, а мы — не боле
как только мы. Вот граница.
Зависти не испытав и боли,
входим, шапки сломав, в гробницу.
Да, Данте. Он — уже остался,
а мы, знаменитые по два, по три
года,
жребий, что нам достался,
не смеем даже бросить подле.
Покуда гиды вкусно, длительно
рассказывают о его судьбе,
себялюбиво и неуважительно
к себе
мы думаем о себе.
На дне души, на самом донце,
вдруг отражается светало:
внезапным блеском блещет солнце,
которое ему светило.
«Your vague image, frail and born in ache, / In the fog I could not sense by touch. / “God!” my tongue let out, though by mistake, / For I did not mean to say that much. So God’s name, much like a wide-winged bird, / From my chest took on its feathered flight. / Up ahead of it, dense...»
«My quiet dream, by every minute granted – / A ghostly wood where magic spell is cast; / Like silky curtains, airy and enchanted, / Some iffy rustle moves there, flying fast; In cloudy arguments and crazy meetings, / At the crossroads of eyes astonished wide, / A noise unclear, invisib...»
«A weightless breath has not disturbed the frosty air. / Sad freedom plaguing me, I see me rise up there / With cold soft hymns. I want me lost, evaporated / Forever; but to walk I happen to be fated, Along the snowy street — while I can hear dogs bark, / And on this evening hour the west ...»
«Children’s books, you alone I shall trust; / Children’s thoughts, you alone I shall cherish; / All that’s big is to vanish and perish: / Raise me up from deep sadness I must. I’m dead tired of living, and none / Would I take of what life were to grant me, / But my suffering lan...»