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.
«I shall not forget it (that evening either / Happened, or did not): the pallid sky / Was burned and sundered by the sunset’s / Fire, and against the yellow glow of street lamps. I sat at the window in the overcrowded room. / Somewhere, the fiddlers sang of love. / I sent you a black ros...»
«I shall never forget (was it real or fancied, / That far evening?) the yellowish light / Of a sky scorched and riven by flame and, against it, / Rows of streetlamps already alight. It was crowded. The bows scraped the strings, and, lamenting / Love’s swift passing, spoke sadly to me. / ...»
«The house next door has yellow windows. / Every night — every night / The wistful bolts begin to squeak, / Men walk slowly to the gate. The heavy gates are double-locked, / And on the wall — on the wall / Someone silent, someone black / Sits motionless and counts them all. His voic...»
«The house next door has yellow windows. / In the evening, in the evening / Its pensive bolts screech in their hinges, / And people to its gates come streaming. The gates are shut to hold them back, / And on the wall, and on the wall, / Someone unmoving, someone black / Counts people in ...»