Let’s go to the city, where we
Sometimes would stay on occasion.
And leave the past behind,
Like luggage at the station.
Let the past try to safeguard itself,
For us, there’s no preservation.
We’ll feel some sadness, but more
New vigor and strength and elation.
Already the autumn has ripened
To new shades of blue in the sky.
A bird, a cloud, and smoke,
Above us, unhurried, fly by.
The snow will come. The rustle
Of foliage is soon to be over.
The hemisphere in autumn
Is spacious, vast, and open.
The frost has glued together,
As though a swallow’s nest,
All that was once unsettled
Disheveled, broken, stressed.
And so, November’s come,
Enormous, light and regal.
This city stands, as though,
Unoccupied by people, —
There’s so much sky above us,
And gardens right beside us,
That we don’t notice people,
As strangers and outsiders...
O, I understood so late
The meaning of existence,
And why the heart is pumping
Red blood with all its pistons,
And that I shouldn’t feared
Those passionate sensations,
And that I should have lived
Without reservation...
Давай поедем в город,
Где мы с тобой бывали.
Года́, как чемоданы,
Оставим на вокзале.
Года́ пускай хранятся,
А нам храниться поздно.
Нам будет чуть печально,
Но бодро и морозно.
Уже дозрела осень
До синего налива.
Дым, облако и птица
Летят неторопливо.
Ждут снега, листопады
Недавно отшуршали.
Огромно и просторно
В осеннем полушарьи.
И всё, что было зыбко,
Растрёпанно и розно,
Мороз скрепил слюною,
Как ласточкины гнёзда.
И вот ноябрь на свете,
Огромный, просветлённый.
И кажется, что город
Стоит ненаселённый, —
Так много сверху неба,
Садов и гнёзд вороньих,
Что и не замечаешь
Людей, как посторонних…
О, как я поздно понял,
Зачем я существую,
Зачем гоняет сердце
По жилам кровь живую,
И что, порой, напрасно
Давал страстям улечься,
И что нельзя беречься,
И что нельзя беречься…
«To B. Slutsky A neighbourhood, suburbs, a town — what name do they call it? / We'll pass it, we'll go away, swirls of dust on the road. What drives us, preventing from stopping — a hunger, a fear? / A neighbourhood, suburbs, a town — what town is here? What for are we looking, what fo...»
«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...»