Husbands with their doings and nerves,
sense of duty and sense of guilt,
ought to die first, first,
they ought not die second*
Wives ought to grow old little by little
reaching even hundred-year limits,
on rare occasions, but over and over again
remembering their husbands.
You should not have done it the way
you did. You should not.
With a kind smile on your lips
you should have lived,
you should have lived a long time.
To live to old age, to gray hairs
is what wives are obliged and ought to do,
Getting on with your things at home,
breaking certain men’s hearts
or even — well, why not? —
drinking a toast in memory of your husbands.
Мужья со своими делами, нервами,
чувством долга, чувством вины
должны умирать первыми, первыми,
вторыми они умирать не должны.
Жены должны стареть понемногу,
хоть до столетних дойдя рубежей,
изредка, впрочем, снова и снова
вспоминая своих мужей.
Ты не должна была делать так,
как ты сделала. Ты не должна была.
С доброй улыбкою на устах
жить ты должна была,
долго должна была.
Жить до старости, до седины
жены обязаны и должны,
делая в доме свои дела,
чьи-нибудь сердца разбивая
или даже — была не была —
чарку — в память мужей — распивая.
«You walk along your road, / I do not touch your hand. / But the despair in me — it’s too eternal, / That you were to me — a stranger. The heart immediately said: “Darling!” / I forgave you everything — at random, / Knowing nothing — even your name! — / O love me, o love ...»
«How can I not recall / That smell of White Rose and tea, / And the Sevres figures / Above the blazing fireplace… We were: I in a splendid dress / Of golden silk, / You — in a knitted black jacket / With a winged collar. I remember, with what face you / Entered — without the sli...»
«There are names like stifling flowers / And gazes like a dancing flame… / There are dark sinuous mouths / With deep damp corners. There are women. — Their hair, like a helmet, / Their fan smells deadly and delicate. / They are thirty. — Why, why do you need / My Spartan child’s»
«On the green hills a herd of horses strays; / Their nostrils blow the gold dust from the days. From the high hills to the blue water’s reach / They shake and drop their manes as black as pitch. Over the quiet water their heads strain; / The moon has caught them in a silver rein. Snorting ...»