A pale moon, on the wane,
The air sonorous, dead and clear,
And on the naked, nippy willow
Murmurs a wilted leaf.
Catches frost, gets heavier
In the abyss of a quiet pond.
Darkens and thickens
The stirless water.
A pale moon on the wane
Is lying dead,
And on the naked black willow
The cold ray doesn’t tremble.
The sky shimmers, dear,
As the magical earth,
As the inaccessible fields
Of a lost paradise.
Бледный месяц — на ущербе.
Воздух — звонок, мертв и чист.
И на голой, зябкой вербе
Шелестит увядший лист.
Замерзает, тяжелеет
В бездне тихого пруда,
И чернеет и густеет
Неподвижная вода.
Бледный месяц на ущербе
Умирающий лежит,
И на голой черной вербе
Луч холодный не дрожит.
Блещет небо, догорая,
Как волшебная земля,
Как потерянного рая
Недоступные поля.
«I concealed all my worry inside me, / And gazed casually, calm and composed. / She sat down, like a porcelain idol, / In a long predetermined pose. It’s my daily routine to be merry / But attentiveness takes all my might… / Or did indolence now overwhelm me / After so many scented M...»
«I hear the always-sad voice of the oriole / and I salute the passing of delectable summer. / With the hissing of a snake the scythe cuts down / the stalks, one pressed hard against another. And the hitched-up skirts of the slender reapers / fly in the wind like holiday flags. Now if only / ...»
«I hear the oriole's always-grieving voice, / And the rich summer's welcome loss I hear / In the sickle's serpentine hiss / Cutting the corn's ear tightly pressed to ear. And the short skirts of the slim reapers / Fly in the wind like holiday pennants, / The clash of joyful cymbals, an...»
«A see-through shroud now disperses / And melts unnoticed on the sod. / The spring, so very cold and merciless, / Is killing off each swelling bud. So frightful of the early death, / That I can’t look at God’s creation. / I feel the grief King David left, — / Millenniums of desolat»