Sins are forgiven for poetry.
Great sins for great poetry.
Even mortal sins are forgiven
when I write poetry with my whole soul.
But if people don’t forgive me while I’m still alive
Later they’ll smite oblivion from me.
Even though they’re evil-doers
let them remember [me]
for something good
not just for any old thing.
I ask the person who has knowledge and knows:
strike, but do not forget.
Kill, but do not forget.
Грехи прощают за стихи.
Грехи большие —
за стихи большие.
Прощают даже смертные грехи,
когда стихи пишу от всей души я.
А ежели при жизни не простят,
потом забвение с меня скостят.
Пусть даже лихо деют —
вспоминают
пускай добром,
не чем-нибудь.
Прошу того, кто ведает и знает:
ударь, но не забудь.
Убей, но не забудь.
«Full-blossomed, blue-grey and milky, the day froze still; / The sea, grown pallid, sobs as it kisses the sand; / The wings of the mist / Shed splashes of brine... Humility envelops the heart. Quiet... / Thoughts die away. In the orchard, the olive / Stretches her boughs to the blind sky /...»
«The door is open: welcome, all who come! / All roads, all journeys meet in this my home. / Through its chilly cells, in limewash white, / the breeze transmits the waves' muffled thud / against the low beach, wafting bitter wormwood / and the brittle voice of the cicada. / From tall windo...»
«Who will bring our chronicle to later times? / No written text, no thought, no word will reach them. / The licking flame will swallow up all signs / and blood will eat away the blind syllables. / And yet, maybe, some chance-remembered verse / will keep and hold a sacred memory. / None of...»
«Over her head and rising higher / The flowers' sheaves, descends from hill, / She neared and stared... / Who are you? / — Maya. / I am so grateful that you're here. / There — mad...»