A wreath woven of sharp thorns
Encircles your poor brow like a crown,
And from your eyes — dark shadows.
Before you, on my knees
I bow, as if at vesper’s sacrifice;
Onto my dress, drops of blood
Like garnets drip from your feet...
Still no one has yet guessed
Why my gaze is so troubled,
Why from Sunday mass
I’ve long since been returning last,
Why my lips tremble,
When the cloud of incense hovers
Like barely bluish lace.
Let the monks mutter curses,
Let hell fire await the sinners —
Before Easter, in spring, at the new moon
From a wizard known to me,
I bought the bitter stone of love — the astarote.1
And today you will descend from the cross
At the hour preceding earth’s sunset.
____
1. The poet may be referring to some sacred stone used in the worship of Astarte (Ashtoreth, Atargatis), the Phoenician goddess of fertility and sexual love, the West Semitic form of the goddess Ishtar. She was also regarded by the classical nations as a moon goddess (probably through confusion with another goddess), and in accordance with this view, which prevails in literary tradition, was identified with Selene and Artemis. More commonly, and with better reason, she was identified with Aphrodite.
Жалит лоб твой из острого терния
Как венец заплетенный венок,
И у глаз твоих темные тени.
Пред тобою склоняя колени,
Я стою, словно жертва вечерняя,
И на платье мое с твоих ног
Капли крови стекают гранатами...
Но никем до сих пор не угадано,
Почему так тревожен мой взгляд,
Почему от воскресной обедни
Я давно возвращаюсь последней,
Почему мои губы дрожат,
Когда стелется облако ладана
Кружевами едва синеватыми.
Пусть монахи бормочут проклятия,
Пусть костер соблазнившихся ждет, —
Я пред Пасхой, весной, в новолунье,
У знакомой купила колдуньи
Горький камень любви — астарот.
И сегодня сойдешь ты с распятия
В час, горящий земными закатами.
«We paced the house, stricken, / Not waiting for surprises. / They brought me to the sick one, / I couldn’t recognize him. He said then: “Praise the Lord,” — / And pensive again, withdrew: / “It’s time to take that road, / I’ve waited just for you.” You haunt me still so...»
«I came up to the forest of pines, / My path was long, the sun beat down. / Pulling the doorway curtains aside, / He, gray-haired and humble, came out. The seer gazed at me and zealously, / He uttered: “Bride of Christ! / For the prosperous, feel no jealousy, / For your place is up in ...»
«Thus others to the wounded crane / Call, “Kurlee, kurlee!” humbly. / As the autumnal fields remain / At once both, warm and crumbly… Thus, for me, ailing, a call resounds, / The golden wings are beating / Somewhere from the dense low clouds / And from the thickets, pleading: “I...»
«In the churchyard, I’ll sleep soundly / Underneath the slab of oak, / And my darling, you will run to me / For a Sunday morning talk — / Cross the stream and there you are, / Leaving grown-ups at a loss, / And sharp-sighted, from afar, / You will recognize my cross. / And I know ...»