Someone said to me: “Your beloved
Will be wrapped in a fiery cloak...”
Whose sling hurled a stone.
Crashing with frenzied force?..
Whose flint arrow
Is buried in the sand by the spring?
Whose fleeting hoof
Left its imprint in the rock?
Whose gleaming visor
Glinted past, there, in the thicket?
In the sky flutters a red cloak...
I did not glimpse his face.
Кто-то мне сказал: твой милый
Будет в огненном плаще...
Камень, сжатый в чьей праще,
Загремел с безумной силой?
Чья кремнистая стрела
У ключа в песок зарыта?
Чье летучее копыто
Отчеканила скала?
Чье блестящее забрало
Промелькнуло там, средь чащ?
В небе вьется красный плащ...
Я лица не увидала.
«The sense that love is coming's worse / Than love itself. Love is like war — / You've come together, eye to eye. / You're with her — nothing more in store. The approach of love is like a storm: / You feel a dampness in your pores / But still it's calm — the piano's sound / Can y...»
«to Valentina Serova I buried love and doomed myself to be / Its monument. Above the recent grave / Upon myself I carved a dozen lines, / Beyond my strength and posthumously brave. Love, like a runner in the marathon, / Had reached the tape but yet had lost all breath. / My love had lost ...»
«to Valentina Serova I cannot write a single line of verse, / Not to the girl you were, nor to you now. / And after all the bitter words we've said / Why should we meet again for one more row? For what you gave when I was with you — thanks! / I never reckoned the precise degree / Of how...»
«My sister — life — in a flood of spring rain / Has bruised herself blue all around us today, / But people in watches seem peevish and vain / And bite so politely, like vipers in hay. The old have their motives for such goings on, / Your motives moat likely are silly, I'll bet: / That ...»