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.
«Long the Tsar sat lonely, brooding. / But he, too, was only human. / Tears for one sad year he shed... / And another woman wed. / She (if one be strictly truthful) / Was a born Tsaritsa — youthful, / Slim, tall, fair to look upon, / Clever, witty — and so on. / But sh...»
«The roads to the past have long been closed, / and what is the past to me now? / What is there? Bloody slabs, / or a bricked up door, / or an echo that still could not / keep quiet, although I ask so… / The same thing happened with the echo / as with what I carry in my heart.»
«Past’s path long ago was barricaded, / Now I wonder, what for me is left? / Only grave slabs where the blood has faded / Or a crumbling doorway’s bricked up cleft, / Or an echo that cannot but tarry / Even though I plead with it to stop… / Like the one that in my heart I carry / ...»
«There’re no paths to where the former gone is. / I don’t crave for the passed by long ago. / And what is there? The lit with blood floor stones, / The immur’d and forgotten door, / Or echo which still doesn’t have any patience / To be quite mute, though I’ve prayed much for that...»