Now, again as before,
mothers seem to be fond of their kids, love them dearly.
In the past they did loved them, really,
but often reproached them for sponging,
and spanked them severely.
Now they keep everything,
just in case, for some future occasion:
alarm, faith, love and tears...
Is it an instinct
or weakness, faint heart,
or is it a historic experience?
Is it something developing all by itself
that, invisible, hangs in the air,
that has given them fussy and fidgety love
and filled their life with great care?
Or, unwilling to wait, they now leave to themselves
the right for the last word, or rather
they are anxious to praise, exalt and forgive
and make wonders instead of some other?
Whatever it is,
however you look,
and no matter what lesson life gives us,
the price of caress and love in this world
again has gone up for some reasons.
When their sons, their scrawny adorable kids,
lie, tease cats, flood the markets,
in laziness wallow,
it’s Abel and Icarus, not Cain and Daedelus,
whom, mothers believe, they will follow.
And they picture themselves,
through the caprice and wrath,
through the chaos of fuss
of their daughters' whimsy:
now Penelope's grief,
now the arms of Jeanne d'Arc,
now the visage of grand Mona Lisa.
I can see their eyes full of tears,
and their beautiful eyebrows, raised when they’re bothered,
and I cannot imagine
anything else
but for this love of mothers!
Нынче матери все
словно заново всех
своих милых детей полюбили.
Раньше тоже любили,
но больше их хлебом корили,
сильнее лупили.
Нынче, как сухари,
и любовь, и восторг,
и тревогу, и преданность копят...
То ли это инстинкт,
то ли слабость души,
то ли сам исторический опыт?
Или в воздухе нашем само по себе
разливается что-то такое,
что прибавило им суетливой любви
и лишило отныне покоя?
Или, ждать отказавшись, теперь за собой оставляют последнее слово
и неистово жаждут прощать, возносить
и творить чудеса за кого-то другого?
Что бы ни было там,
как бы ни было там,
и чему бы нас жизнь ни учила,
в нашем мире цена на любовь да на ласку
опять высоко подскочила.
И когда худосочные их сыновья
лгут, преследуют кошек,
наводняют базары,
матерям-то не каины видятся — авели,
не дедалы — икары!
И мерещится им
сквозь сумбур сумасбродств
дочерей современных,
сквозь гнев и капризы
то печаль Пенелопы,
то рука Жанны д'Арк,
то задумчивый лик Моны Лизы.
И слезами полны их глаза,
и высоко прекрасные вскинуты брови.
Так что я и представить себе не могу
ничего, кроме этой любови!
«Wandering the noisy streets, / Entering the crowded church, / Sitting among wild young men, / I am lost in my thoughts. I say to myself: the years will fly, / And however many are here, we shall all / Go down under the eternal vaults. / Someone's hour is already at hand. Gazing at a so...»
«Through the murk the moon is veering, / Ghost-accompanist of night, / On the melancholy clearings / Pouring melancholy light. Runs the troika with its dreary / Toneless jangling sleigh-bell on / Over dismal snow' I'm weary, / Hungry, frozen to the bone. Coachman in a homely fashion's ...»
«Through the misty billows’ fingers / Threads the moon with pallid shade, / On the dismal glades she lingers, / Casts her dismal beams’ parade. Down the listless winter passage / Races troika pulled by hounds, / Tolls the sleigh-bell’s one-note message, / Fills the air with tedious...»
«Down through shivering fog, the moon now / Makes its way across the night, / Soaking melancholy meadows / In a melancholy light. Down the road through dismal winter, / My quick carriage carries on / And the sleigh-bell's tuneless tinkle / Is a numbing monotone. Notes familiar in the mu...»