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...
«With every passing day it is becoming harder / To find the things I lived with when a child so well. / Where are the "lightening" lamps? Where is black powder? / Where is black water from the bottom of the well? Where is "Isle of Dead" in decadency framing? / Where are the photographs of mo...»
«There he comes up to soda water booth / As if it were a real clockwork toy, / An arrogant sophisticated boy, / A favourite of slot machines, like youth. / / Then, the conceited fantasist first-class, / Inserts a coin into the slot, and putting / His cheek to tender splashes softly sh...»
«It's thirteen now! Quite recently / We welcomed greeting it with love. / At thirteen, wilfully and boldly / It showed its nature well enough. / / Again, your day of birth is coming... / You vicious naughty boy! For once / Do not expect either good wishes / Or great festivities from ...»
«The artist's work delineates / Dead faint of lilac shrub for us / He put, like crusts, upon the canvass / Reverberating sounds of paints / / He knows what oil is worth indeed: / Its summer, parched and under strain, / Warmed up with lilac tint of brain / Extended to the stuffy heat....»