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.
«Brothers, let's celebrate the dusk of liberty, / Let's celebrate this great and dusky Yule. / In boiling waters of the night like sea / The heavy wood has been submerged and pulls / In these dead years you rise above me / O sun, to judge us all and rule. Let's celebrate the fated burden, ...»
«On fearsome height stands wandering fire / But does star glimmer thus, or are eyes lying? / Transparent star, wandering fire / Your brother, Petropole, is dying. On fearsome height the earthly dreams all burn / And a green star is flying. / Oh, if you be a star — brother of earth and he...»
«I have forgot the word that I had meant to say. / To palace of the shades flies a blind swallow / Upon clipped wings with shadows to play. / Night's song is in oblivion sung below. Immortelle does not bloom. I cannot hear bird's song. / Transparent are the mantles of night's horse herd / ...»
«For this that your arms I could not more tightly keep — / For this that your tender saltwater lips I've foresaken — / As much as abhorrent to me is this ruin half-asleep — / I must in Acropolis wait till the city awakens. The Aegeans ready the horse in the darkness profound, / With sh...»