Riveting our eyes
On the blanching east,
Children of sorrow, children of night,
We wait, to see if our prophet shall come.
We are scenting out the unseen,
And, with hope in our hearts,
Dying, we grieve
Over uncreated worlds.
Our speech is daring,
But condemned to die
Are the too early precursors
Of a too tardy spring.
Resurrections of the buried
And the rooster’s song
In the middle of the deep night,
Morning’s cold — they are us.
We are the steps above the abyss,
Children of murk, awaiting the sun:
Once we see the light, as shadows,
We shall perish in its rays.
Устремляя наши очи
На бледнеющий восток,
Дети скорби, дети ночи,
Ждем, придет ли наш пророк.
Мы неведомое чуем,
И, с надеждою в сердцах,
Умирая, мы тоскуем
О несозданных мирах.
Дерзновенны наши речи,
Но на смерть осуждены
Слишком ранние предтечи
Слишком медленной весны.
Погребенных воскресенье
И, среди глубокой тьмы,
Петуха ночное пенье,
Холод утра — это мы.
Наши гимны — наши стоны;
Мы для новой красоты
Нарушаем все законы,
Преступаем все черты.
Мы — соблазн неутоленных,
Мы — посмешище людей,
Искра в пепле оскорбленных
И потухших алтарей.
Мы — над бездною ступени,
Дети мрака, солнца ждем,
Свет увидим и, как тени,
Мы в лучах его умрем.
«Now once there was a soldier boy / Handsome and bold as bold can be / But he was just a children's toy: / He was a paper soldier, see. He wanted to remake the world / For all men to live happily / But round the bedpost he was twirled / He was a paper soldier, see. Ready amid the fire a...»
«Round the back way there is a gate / that bears the sign NO HAWKERS: / here lives — the lord of his estate — / a cat as black as Orcus. Beneath his whiskers lurks a grin / the darkness is his shield. / While other cats make all the din / the black cat’s lips are sealed. Rats? Mic...»
«All night the cocks were crowing / and their bright eyes were shutting / and back their heads were throwing / as if they were reciting. / But something in their throttles / recalled the caustic sorrow / of shamefaced men in brothels / tomorrow and tomorrow. / The cry was drained of f...»
«So nowadays it is the rule — / for every ebb there is a flow / for every wise man there’s a fool / and everything works out just so. But fools find this arrangement galls — / from all sides you can see right through them. / People shout at the fools 'Fools! Fools!’ / and this is...»