The word is instant, and life is short.
Where does man find his dwelling spot?
Where in the world, where in nature’s lap
do the roses of his living soul spring up?
How does he manage to find a way
to keep to himself, and to have his say,
to sing his songs, walk around the world,
turn his heart from iron to gold?
How does he manage a funny man,
on fairs of kisses and fuss and fun,
amidst flattery, shots and strife,
to pick out nothing else but love?
A splinter will draw his blood to jeers:
«Did you want love ? Now here h it is !»
A slap in the face in the paradise:
«Did you want love ? Now here’s your price!»
And yet he contrives, a funny man,
on fairs of kisses, wrangles and fun,
amidst flattery, feasts and strife,
to pick out nothing else but love!
Мгновенно слово. Короток век.
Где ж умещается человек?
Как, и когда, и в какой глуши
распускаются розы его души?
Как умудряется он успеть
свое промолчать и свое пропеть,
по планете просеменить,
гнев на милость переменить?
Как умудряется он, чудак,
на ярмарке поцелуев и драк,
в славословии и пальбе
выбрать только любовь себе?
Осколок выплеснет его кровь:
«Вот тебе за твою любовь!»
Пощечины перепадут в раю:
«Вот тебе за любовь твою!»
И все ж умудряется он, чудак,
на ярмарке поцелуев и драк,
в славословии и гульбе
выбрать только любовь себе!
«I chanced upon an ancient witch in brooding forest lair. / And asked I of this ancient one: “You know the sin I bear?” / She laughed, this wizened woman, with a cackle like a bray: / “Do you not know? You aren’t, my child, the first his youth to slay? / For you rejected happiness, be...»
«When shines the moon amidst the dark of night / With sickle’s scintillation, bright and tender, / It’s then my spirit starts to take her flight, / In thrall to all that’s filled with distant splendour. And in my dreams I race towards the chases / Of forest glades and snow-white mounta...»
«It isn’t Cairo’s scents’ intoxications, / Where through the night the muezzin’s summons rings, / Nor Java where amidst the ruins clings / The light from ancient lantern’s bright striations, It’s not Benares, fiery Indra’s dwelling, / Who covets there a lightning banquet’s sh...»
«My friend, there’s only love and glee – / The things that there will always be – / They are in others’ hearts however. / But sweet my brother, you and I / Are but the mist of Beauty’s sigh, / We’re fated to rotate for ever / In cups of bright unfading shade, / Of gardens th...»