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.
«I concealed all my worry inside me, / And gazed casually, calm and composed. / She sat down, like a porcelain idol, / In a long predetermined pose. It’s my daily routine to be merry / But attentiveness takes all my might… / Or did indolence now overwhelm me / After so many scented M...»
«I hear the always-sad voice of the oriole / and I salute the passing of delectable summer. / With the hissing of a snake the scythe cuts down / the stalks, one pressed hard against another. And the hitched-up skirts of the slender reapers / fly in the wind like holiday flags. Now if only / ...»
«I hear the oriole's always-grieving voice, / And the rich summer's welcome loss I hear / In the sickle's serpentine hiss / Cutting the corn's ear tightly pressed to ear. And the short skirts of the slim reapers / Fly in the wind like holiday pennants, / The clash of joyful cymbals, an...»
«A see-through shroud now disperses / And melts unnoticed on the sod. / The spring, so very cold and merciless, / Is killing off each swelling bud. So frightful of the early death, / That I can’t look at God’s creation. / I feel the grief King David left, — / Millenniums of desolat»