To worship someone is my aspiration.
Imagine, just a simple ant of mine
Felt suddenly like kneeling in prostration,
Believing in his touch with the divine.
The ant then was bereft of peace and calmness,
So everyday was everything he saw
That lastly, in his image, in his likeness,
A goddess he created to his awe.
And on day seven, at a random moment,
The glow of night had shaped into her mold
Without a sign from heaven or an omen,
Light jacket was her cover from the cold.
Remembering no miseries nor blessings,
He let her in, he opened wide the door,
And to the windburned hands his lips were pressing,
And to the worn-out booties that she wore.
Two shadows crossed the doorstep, slowly flowing,
Without a word, they silently conversed —
As gods in heaven beautiful and knowing,
And sorrowful as dwellers of the earth.
Мне нужно на кого-нибудь молиться.
Подумайте, простому муравью
вдруг захотелось в ноженьки валиться,
поверить в очарованность свою!
И муравья тогда покой покинул,
все показалось будничным ему,
и муравей создал себе богиню
по образу и духу своему.
И в день седьмой, в какое-то мгновенье
она возникла из ночных огней
без всякого небесного знаменья...
Пальтишко было легкое на ней.
Все позабыв — и радости, и муки,
он двери распахнул в свое жилье
и целовал обветренные руки
и старенькие туфельки ее.
И тени их качались на пороге,
безмолвный разговор они вели,
красивые и мудрые, как боги,
и грустные, как жители Земли.
«Who knows what such fame is like! / At what price did he buy the right, / The possibility or the paradise / To joke about it all so wisely and cunningly, / To be mysteriously silent, / And to call a foot a “footsie”?»
«I do not deserve this praise, rather, / And Sappho doesn’t matter in that, / I know the reason another, / But nothing of it can be read. / Let somebody save self by running, / And others — by nods from their "bliss". / These poems were all underlying / With text, that’s like look...»
«The twenty first. Monday. Night. / The outline of the capital in mist. / It had to be some idler who contrived / The happy fantasy that love exists. And from laziness or acclimation, / All believed him, and moved along: / Awaiting dates, and dreading separations, / And venerating love i...»
«I'm careless of the ode’s exalted sentence / And of the elegy’s delicious guile. / I say the verse should ill befit the senses, / Escape the common file. If you could know what gibberish empowers / The verse that grows, from all abashment freed, / Like dandelions’ yellow summer fl...»