The squeaking pencils softly roll
for peace and quiet of my soul.
They squeak incessantly, with care,
but give a cry they do not dare.
My soul is burning , getting hot,
but what’s a pencil worth? Yes, what?
Abiding by the rule
it will tranquil my soul.
...One final stroke, — and there it is:
my drawn image, if you please.
I’ve been immortalized...
but I can’t fall and rise;
my temples look unhealthy, dry,
although my forehead is quite high,
I stare with indifference
ahead into the distance..
What shall I call this masterpiece ?
«The Teacher», «Worker» or «Artiste» ?
«Numb Witness of the Era?» —
I’m not a rude believer.
I’m mortal. I am all aflame
while it’s eternal in the frame,
a prize winner, it is...
...but it has got no tears.
Шуршат, шуршат карандаши
за упокой живой души.
Шуршат не нашуршатся,
а вскрикнуть не решатся.
А у меня горит душа,
но что возьмешь с карандаша:
он правил не нарушит
и душу мне потушит.
...Последний штрих, и вот уже
я выполнен в карандаше,
мой фас увековечен...
Но бушевать мне нечем,
и жилка не стучит в висок,
хоть белый лоб мой так высок,
и я гляжу бесстрастно
куда-то все в пространство.
Как будет назван тот портрет?
«Учитель», «Каменщик», «Поэт»,
«Немой свидетель века»?..
Но мне ли верить в это?
Я смертен. Я горю в огне.
Он вечен в рамке на стене
и премией отмечен...
...да плакать ему нечем.
«O Thou, in universe so boundless, / alive in planets as they swarm / within eternal flow, yet timeless, / unseen, you reign in triune form! / Thy single Spirit all comprises, / from no abode or cause arises, / keeps paths that Reason never trod, / pervades, incarnate, all that's living...»
«Metallic clangour! Tongue of time! / Your fatal voice oppresses me; / your groans call me insistently, / call me and speed me to the grave. / Scarcely the light of day I see / and death already grinds her teeth; / like lightning flashes her scythe gleams / and cuts my days like stalks...»
«I sit where the light is above me, / my circular room is my sphere; / I gaze at a plasterwork heaven / where the sun is an old chandelier. And likewise illumined around me, / the chairs and the table and bed. / Should I sit with my hands in my pockets, / or where might I put them instea...»
«Deep in the mountain the idol rests / in sweet repose, infinite and blest, / the fat of necklaces dripping from his neck / protects his dreams of flood tide and of slack. As a boy, he buddied with a peacock, / they gave him rainbow of India to eat / and milk in a pink clay dish, / and d...»