"Christ has risen" — they chant in the temple,
But I feel sad... my soul is silent;
The world is full of blood and tears,
And this hymn in front of the altars
Sounds so insulting.
If He were among us and could see,
What our glorious age has achieved,
How brothers have learned to hate each other,
How humans are disgraced,
And if here, in this luxurious temple,
He heard, "Christ is risen",
How bitter would be the tears He would shed
In front of the crowd!
Oh brethren, let it come to pass
That in this world there would not be any masters or slaves,
The groans and curses would fall silent,
And so would the clatter of swords, and the ringing of shackles, —
Oh, then, and only then, as a hymn of freedom,
Let it thunder: "Christ has risen!"
And all the peoples will answer us:
"Christ has risen indeed!"
«Христос воскрес», — поют во храме;
Но грустно мне... душа молчит:
Мир полон кровью и слезами,
И этот гимн пред алтарями
Так оскорбительно звучит.
Когда б Он был меж нас и видел,
Чего достиг наш славный век,
Как брата брат возненавидел,
Как опозорен человек,
И если б здесь, в блестящем храме
«Христос воскрес» Он услыхал,
Какими б горькими слезами
Перед толпой Он зарыдал!
Пусть на земле не будет, братья,
Ни властелинов, ни рабов,
Умолкнут стоны и проклятья,
И стук мечей, и звон оков, —
О лишь тогда, как гимн свободы,
Пусть загремит: «Христос воскрес!»
И нам ответят все народы:
«Христос воистину воскрес!»
«Supper sky fell in love with a bulwark / All is slashed with pink scars of light threads — / Having fallen upon it was thrown back / And transformed into thirteen odd heads. / There you are, my nighty-night heaven, / Like a young boy I’m here to face you — / Chills run down my back...»
«At once I smeared the map of boredom / By spilling pigments from a tumbler; / I formed an oceans’ jagged cheekbones / Atop the crest of aspic platter. / I read the summons of fresh youth / on rusty glint of fish scale tin. / So could you / take / a drainpipe flute / and play a ...»
«In about an hour into a tidy alley / flabby fat of yours will leak from here one by one. / I opened to you my poems treasure trove bravely / I, the prized words profligate and prodigal. Hey you, sir, your mustache still has some cabbage / caught from a soup half-eaten somewhere and left ...»
«Noises ebbed. I entered the stage door. / Leaning up against the door jamb, still / I attempt to piece from distant echoes, / What the future has in store for me. / / I am scrutinized by nightly darkness / With a thousand binoculars to see. / Only if you’re willing, Abba ...»