Hatred! A special added taste to the soup.
The soup’s just soup. Simple stock really,
but with a pinch of salt or pepper
from the heart that hates in vain.
Hatred makes the bed,
hatred corrects the notebook,
sweeps the floor and wipes away the dust:
and never lets you out of its sight.
Seeing nothing. Hating.
Hearing nothing. Hating.
Hatred trembles when it sees you.
You can praise it or curse it.
And then it weeps on the quiet,
and hurriedly hides its eyes from you,
and lies in the bed beside you,
fixing a long gaze on the ceiling.
Ненависть! Особый привкус в супе.
Суп — как суп. Простой бульон по сути,
но с щепоткой соли или перцу —
даром ненавидящего сердца.
Ненависть кровати застилает,
ненависть тетради проверяет,
подметает пол и пыль стирает:
из виду никак вас не теряет.
Ничего не видя. Ненавидя.
Ничего не слыша. Ненавидя.
Вздрагивает ненависть при виде
вашем. Хвалите или язвите.
А потом она тихонько плачет,
и глаза от вас поспешно прячет,
и лежит в постели с вами рядом, в
потолок уставясь долгим взглядом.
«We charged at the enemy, / Camped on the heath, / With "The Song of the Apple" / Caught in our teeth. / The rocks and the heather, / The newly-mown hay / Echo our song / To this very day. But my pal sang another, / A song from afar, / As we rode in the saddle, / Pursuing our sta...»
«I’m lonely and sad, and in moments of bitterest pain / Have no one to look to, alas… / Desires!.. What use to desire without end, without gain, / While all the best years swiftly, fleetingly pass! To love… Whom?.. If briefly, ’tis not worth the effort… / ...»
«Noon heat, a gorge in Daghestan, / I lay still, a bullet in my chest: / The deep wound was still red-hot, / blood seeped, drop by drop. I lay lonely on the gorge’s sand, / the cliff-ledges towered around, / the sun burned their yellow heights, / and I — I slept like the dead. And I...»
«Clouds in the sky, you are ceaselessly wandering, / As pearly chains in the azure steppes glimmering, / Exiled as I have been, constantly hurrying / From native North into South you are quickening. What drives you there: the command of your destiny? / Some secret jealousy? Or open wickednes...»