Thank you for everything. For the war,
For the revolution and exile.
For the indifferent bright country
Where we now ‘drag out our existence’.
There is no sweeter destiny than to lose everything.
There is no happier fate than to become a vagabond.
And you’ve never been closer to heaven
Than here, tired of boredom
Tired of breathing,
Without strength, without money,
Without love,
In Paris...
За все, за все спасибо. За войну,
За революцию и за изгнанье.
За равнодушно — светлую страну,
Где мы теперь "влачим существованье".
Нет доли сладостней — все потерять.
Нет радостней судьбы — скитальцем стать,
И никогда ты к небу не был ближе,
Чем здесь, устав скучать,
Устав дышать,
Без сил, без денег,
Без любви, в Париже...
«He's taken all from me, executioner God. / Health, strength of will, the air, and sleep. / Only one thing did he leave me, and that / Is you, that I may continue to praise him.»
«Now the golden leafage is beggared. / Shining through the porches of autumn, / Shows the cool blue stillness of heaven. / Lo, the thin-trunked grove is transcended: / Carved in stone, a columned cathedral. / Smoke-scrolls wind about the frail friezes; / Flung above the doors is a curtain...»
«We live just as in a dream impenetrable / on one of the comfortable planets... / There are so many things we don't need, / and that which we want doesn't exist.»
«Moon shadows — shadows of sorrow — / Stumble about as a quiet herd, / Wearing black, like grief, earth's cover, / Tramping a ghostly hidden path. They lovingly and gently rocked many, / And sensitively gave reflections back. / Moon shadows, shadows of sorrow, / Endlessly repeating m...»