Fall of early twilight; flutes are playing, restive; evening ride proceeding.
On the finest horse, in a caftan blue and festive, emperor is leading.
Horse is color snow-white, hair is color raven, scarlet ammunition.
Eyes are color amber; wings are spread in mission — battle premonition.
Following the emperor generals are squiring, warriors committed,
Gloriously greeted, battle scars repeated, only not defeated.
Adjutants attendant, tireless contenders; epaulettes are glaring.
All of them have talent, all of them have splendor, all of them have daring.
Past claviers and voices are becoming fainter, sounds are slowly waning.
Just the measured pounding, flutes’ uneasy sounding, spiteful hopes remaining.
Smells of smoke and chimney are becoming weaker, smells of home and haven.
And the feet are touching and the eyes are watching only earth and heaven.
Сумерки. Природа. Флейты голос нервный. Позднее катанье.
На передней лошади едет император в голубом кафтане.
Белая кобыла с карими глазами, с челкой вороною.
Красная попона. Крылья за спиною, как перед войною.
Вслед за императором едут генералы, генералы свиты,
славою увиты, шрамами покрыты, только не убиты.
Следом — дуэлянты, флигель-адъютанты. Блещут эполеты.
Все они красавцы, все они таланты, все они поэты.
Все слабее звуки прежних клавесинов, голоса былые.
Только топот мерный, флейты голос нервный да надежды злые.
Все слабее запах очага и дыма, молока и хлеба.
Где-то под ногами и над головами — лишь земля и небо.
Сумерки погасли. Флейта вдруг умолкла. Потускнели краски.
Медленно и чинно входят в ночь, как в море, кивера и каски.
Не видать, кто главный, кто — слуга, кто — барин, из дворца ль, из хаты,
все они солдаты, вечностью богаты, бедны ли, богаты.
«The grove in the fall — weeping amber, the circling of leaves, / the dark slow water. / The season of fall, and the temple of quietened trees, / the nature's high altar. The season of fall, what's your promise? I live in suspense, / in anticipation / of some future date, of the meeting,...»
«I can't force a line. I am finished. Run dry. / Try this way, and that — everything is awry. / The river is freezing, and grey is the sky — / the season of birdlessness, ice and stagnation. / All kinds of boloney, in endless supply, / creep into my thinking and feed my frustration, / ...»
«OK, it has happened. Your cranes have returned. / The air of hunting is filling your sheets. / Your powder's dry in your powder-horns. / Oh, well, this is great! / / And even the stars play in favor of you, / and all constellations play into your hands, / in daring thoughts you're a n...»
«Everybody chooses for himself / His religion, loyalties and women. / Service to a prophet, or a demon, / Everybody chooses for himself. Everybody chooses on his own / The word for loving and the word for praying, / A dueling foil, a sword for dragonslaying. / Everybody chooses on his ...»