Lasting winters, summertime — they shall never flow together:
They have different traditions; they don’t look the same at all.
For a reason life has paved two long roads: this one, that one,
That one gets your feet exhausted, this one agitates your soul.
Woman in a window frame, in a shade of rosy color,
Says that tears of separation are impossible to heal,
For ahead of her, again, are two roads: this one, that one,
That one beautiful but fruitless, this one probably for real.
Bang your head against a brick — there will be no truer answer,
And no matter if our passions lead to happiness or loss,
All the same, we face ahead two old roads: this one, that one,
And forever we shall need them, like we need our sky and earth.
Не сольются никогда зимы долгие и лета:
У них разные привычки и совсем несхожий вид.
Не случайны на земле две дороги — та и эта,
Та натруживает ноги, эта душу бередит.
Эта женщина в окне в платье розового цвета
Утверждает, что в разлуке невозможно жить без слез,
Потому что перед ней две дороги — та и эта,
Та прекрасна, но напрасна, эта, видимо, всерьез.
Хоть разбейся, хоть умри — не найти верней ответа,
И куда бы наши страсти нас с тобой не завели,
Неизменно впереди две дороги — та и эта,
Без которых невозможно, как без неба и земли.
«Please search for me in rays through spring leaves sweeping. / I am a bell, a brook, a sun spot sitting still. / I am the wings, elf-like, in twilight fleeting. / They wave. They were. They touched your window sill. Eternal friend, no farewell, no parting! / D'you hear? I'm here. Your han...»
«Snowflakes. Sundown. Fog covered silhouettes. / Roofs like the crests of the sea. / Strange drifts of ocher and rose, a-mellowing, / Atop cupolas they flee. Quiet. So quietly, sadly, and peacefully, / Lights look through windows at me... / Bells ring-a-ling, I imbibe sounds blissfully... ...»
«I sit in my room round and tiny / Awashed by the light from above, / Look up at the stuccoed skyline / Dawn-dusked by a sixty watt sun. My things, lit as well, they surround me: / The chairs, the table, the bed. / I pause, hands confused, where to hide them? / My thoughts race, unravel ...»
«Brightly lit from above I am sitting / in my circular room; this is I — / looking up at a sky made of stucco, / at a sixty-watt sun in that sky. All around me, and also lit brightly, / all around me my furniture stands, / chair and table and bed--and I wonder / sitting there what to d...»