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.
«Do not crumble my letter, my angel. / Keep on reading until it’s complete. / I’m so tired of being a stranger, / An outsider you happened to meet. Do not gaze on me thus, full of spleen, / I’m the one that you love, I’m the one. / Not a shepherdess now nor a queen, / And I’m...»
«You will hear thunder and remember me, / And think: she wanted storms. The rim / Of the sky will be the colour of hard crimson, / And your heart, as it was then, will be on fire. That day in Moscow, it will all come true, / when, for the last time, I take my leave, / And hasten to the hei...»
«Decrepit, with no more teeth, / A scroll of years on her horns. / The rough herdsman has been beating her / On the fields she crossed. Her heart doesn’t fancy noise; / Mice are scratching in the corner. / She is thinking sad thoughts / About a white-legged calf. They never gave the m...»
«Now the golden leaves have started spinning / On the pinkish water of the pond, / Dainty flock of butterflies now thinning, / Heading for a star they will abscond. Love for evening’s now begun to smoulder, / Yellow valley’s hue to heart I’ve cleaved. / Nascent wind upon the birch’...»