Boiling up over the years,
A fury that drives on crazy,
Fury with the champions of freedom,
Fury with the adherents of the yoke,
Fury with the dregs and the toffs —
Different-colored specimens
Of the same «worldly wisdom»,
With the world and with my native land.
Fury? Indifference rather,
Toward life, eternity, fate.
Something catlike or birdlike
Which quite put out
The paragons of propriety,
Well-behaved A and B,
Seated on a chimney.
Накипевшая за годы
Злость, сводящая с ума,
Злость к поборникам свободы,
Злость к ревнителям ярма,
Злость к хамью и джентльменам —
Разномастным специменам
Той же «мудрости земной»,
К миру и стране родной.
Злость? Вернее, безразличье
К жизни, к вечности, к судьбе.
Нечто кошкино иль птичье,
Отчего не по себе
Верным рыцарям приличья,
Благонравным А и Б,
Что уселись на трубе.
«I don’t cry, nor long for, nor regretting – / Life is short like smoke of blooming trees. / In my fading chiton with ‘golden setting / I will be no longer young like this. You, my heart, will not go on as ever, / For the cold has touched your very core. / And the land of chintz and ...»
«Tell, uncle, it was not a boon / By fire Moscow burnt so soon / Enjoyed by Frenchmen tall? / Fierce fights... or wasn't there any? / There were, great battles, there were many, / For reason Russians, kids and granny, / This glorious day recall! Once was a folk that you...»
«– Hey tell, old man, had we a cause / When Moscow, razed by fire, once was / Given up to Frenchman's blow? / Old-timers talk about some frays, / And they remember well those days! / With cause all Russia fashions lays / About Borodino! / / – Yea, ...»
«I like you well, O trusty dagger mine, / My comrade wrought of cool Damascus steel! / Forged were you by the Georgian with revenge in the mind, / By the Circassian free — for war were you made keen. A lily-white hand it was gave you to me — / You were affection's keepsake, its last gift...»