...Like songs, years go by very quickly.
I've changed all my views and my mood.
The yard is too small for me, really,
I’m going to leave it for good.
I want neither honors nor riches,
nor anything else for the road
except for my neighbourhood which is
the only big thing that I’ve got.
Into my rucksack I put it
preparing myself for the stroll,
the yard, not so highly reputed,
but with a human soul.
I’m kind with it, strong, safe and sound.
What else do I need for once?
I touch its affectionate ground
to warm up my frozen hands.
...А годы проходят, как песни.
Иначе на мир я гляжу.
Во дворике этом мне тесно,
и я из него ухожу.
Ни почестей и ни богатства
для дальних дорог не прошу,
но маленький дворик арбатский
с собой уношу, уношу.
В мешке вещевом и заплечном
лежит в уголке небольшой,
не слывший, как я, безупречным
тот двор с человечьей душой.
Сильнее я с ним и добрее.
Что нужно еще? Ничего.
Я руки озябшие грею
о теплые камни его.
«From the mind’s dreams, from the bile’s rage, / Goddess of Faithfulness, keep your slave. With cast-iron hoops bind tight her breast, / Goddess of Faithfulness, be her nest. Remove from the shrub all flowers and pips, / Make her mouth numb, then seal her lips. As safe as bone encased ...»
«When parched with thirst, give me water, / One glass, or else I’ll die. / Persistently — languidly — melodically — / I pledge my feverish cry Repeated at length — yet still more fiercely, / Once more — again / Tossing all night long for sleep, / Aware all sleep is spent. ...»
«After a sleepless night my body grows weaker, / Becomes sweet and no one’s — no longer mine. / In the slow veins the arrows still flicker, / And like a seraph, I smile at passers-by. After a sleepless night my arms grow languid; / Friend or foe, my indifference is complete. / A full r...»
«It's dreadful! It drips and it listens: / Does nobody else in the world / Press branches, like lace, in a window' / Or is there...a witness? The ground is so swollen and smothered, / Too spongy, too heavy to breathe / But listen — far off, as in August — / How midnight grows ripe in...»