Today has not yet come,
And yesterday has melted.
The morning's face is wan:
An actress with no make-up.
Her eyelids puffed, the dawn
Is creeping, nude and moody,
And with a weary yawn
Sinks into daily duties...
Wise mornings have no haste:
The day is barely shaping,
While, sulky and unshaven,
You watch it in the making
And hear its easy pace.
Вчерашний день погас,
А нынешний не начат,
И утро, без прикрас,
Актрисою заплачет.
Без грима, нагишом,
Приходит утром утро,
А далее - в мешок -
Забот, зевот... И мудро
Что утро настает,
И день не обозначен,
И ты небрит и мрачен.
Светлеет. День не начат,
Но он пешком идет.
«8 People shouted on the street, / Smoke flew from the bakery place. / I remembered the ruby mouth / Of a street singer with narrow face. In the dark kerchief with flowers — / Honored by your civility / You were drowned in the crowd / Of praying ones at Sergei-Trinity, Pray for me, ...»
«9 To the golden-lipped Anne — to a word / That all of Russia redeems! / Carry away my voice / And my heavy sigh, wind. About quiet bow of the earth among / Golden fields, O the burning skies, / Tell the story; and also about / From the agony blackened eyes. You attained once again ...»
«10 At the thin wire over oats' wave / Like thousand voices — is the voice today! And - holy, holy, holy — tabors passing by / Speak with the same voice, O the holy, I stand and I listen and I rub the corn ear, / And voice locks me up with a dark cupola. * * * Not the swimming willows...»
«11 You'll overtake the Sun in the sky, / In your hand all the stars! / Ah, if — only to enter you / Like a wind — door ajar! And to tremble, and burst out, / And sharply to dull the sight, / And, like a forgiven child, / To sob and to go quiet.»