Trunk color crimson and crown color blue,
Pine cones of green gently clinking,
There was the wind and the room it went through,
There they praised lovers with singing,
There was the wind and the strings that it brushed,
Caught in a long conversation…
January came in a maddening rush,
Stormed as a train past the station.
We got you dressed, fixed you up head to toe,
Serving and never complaining,
Our cardboard trumpets we’d heartily blow
Like we were heroes-in-training,
It even felt, for a brief moment’s beam
(Guess I was guilelessly easy) —
Face of that woman, the beautiful dream,
Joined with your triumph unceasing.
Minute of parting and hour of payback,
Day when the week’s getting hazy,
All of a sudden, there’s something you lack!
What’s with them all, are they crazy?
Mannered and fine like a nightingale song,
Glorious like grenadiers,
Where are their hands that were seemingly strong?
Where are your proud cavaliers?
Why don’t they gather, turn time back again,
Why don’t they give all their care?
But here’s the clickety-clack of the train,
Parting is so hard to bear!
But here’s the haste, time is always the boss.
Time makes its own hard correction.
And in the haste you are down from the cross,
And there is no resurrection.
Pine, oh my Pine — forest deer gone away,
All your hard efforts proved needless:
Trace of that woman, too timid to stay,
Subtly got lost in your needles.
Pine, like the Church of the Savior-on-Blood,
Your silhouette vaguely sighted
Echoes the trace of astounded new love,
Kindled and never requited.
Зое Крахмальниковой
Синяя крона, малиновый ствол,
звяканье шишек зеленых.
Где-то по комнатам ветер прошел:
там поздравляли влюбленных.
Где-то он старые струны задел —
тянется их перекличка...
Вот и январь накатил-налетел,
бешеный, как электричка.
Мы в пух и прах наряжали тебя,
мы тебе верно служили.
Громко в картонные трубы трубя,
словно на подвиг спешили.
Даже поверилось где-то на миг
(знать, в простодушье сердечном):
женщины той очарованный лик
слит с твоим празднеством вечным.
В миг расставания, в час платежа,
в день увяданья недели
чем это стала ты нехороша?
Что они все, одурели?!
И утонченные, как соловьи,
гордые, как гренадеры,
что же надежные руки свои
прячут твои кавалеры.
Нет бы собраться им — время унять,
нет бы им всем расстараться.
Но начинают колеса стучать:
как тяжело расставаться!
Но начинается вновь суета.
Время по-своему судит.
И в суете тебя сняли с креста,
и воскресенья не будет.
Ель моя, Ель — уходящий олень,
зря ты, наверно, старалась:
женщины той осторожная тень
в хвое твоей затерялась!
Ель моя, Ель, словно Спас-на-крови,
твой силуэт отдаленный,
будто бы след удивленной любви,
вспыхнувшей, неутоленной.
«I love God’s wrath, this Evil! / Invisible, mysterious, poured through everything: / in the flowers, in the glass-clear stream, / in the rainbow-rays, in the very sky of Rome. / The same high, cloudless sky, / your breast's same sweet breath, / the same warm wind rustling tree-to...»
«We'll depart this world for ever, surely, / To repose in peace and quite. Oh, my Lord! / Maybe, I shall also have to duly / Pack my things preparing for the road. / / Oh, my birch-tree woods! Amazing pictures! / Oh, my dear land! My sandy plains! / In the face of crowds of mortal crea...»
«how many times encircled by / a motley crowd / in front of me / as in a dream cacophonies of dance / & music / speeches learned by heart / in phatic whispers mixing with shapes of people / absent a mind or soul / grimacing masks / yet so fastidious much as they touch / my cold...»
«The eyes beg helplessly and dearly / For mercy. Can I ease their pain / As someone is uttering near me / His short and resounding name? I cross the field along the trail, / Where silver timber logs are piled. / Down here, the gentle gusts prevail / As in the springtime, fresh and wild. ...»