I walk and think of various things,
For myself weave a funeral wreath,
And in this hideous world I am
A stylishly solitary man.
But suddenly I hear: war, ideas,
The last trump, the twentieth century...
And growing cold, I then recall —
I am a human being no more.
Spasmic jerking or an idiot,
Useless freak of nature —
"Up with...", yells the patriot,
"Down with...", comes the rebel's roar.
Иду — и думаю о разном.
Плету на гроб себе венок,
И в этом мире безобразном
Благообразно одинок.
Но слышу вдруг: война, идея,
Последний бой, двадцатый век.
И вспоминаю, холодея,
Что я уже не человек,
А судорога идиота,
Природой созданная зря, —
«Ур-ра!» из пасти патриота,
«Долой!» из глотки бунтаря.
«To Z. N. Gippius Enough’s enough: don’t wait, don’t hope; / My wretched people scatter! / Fall into space and shatter, / Year upon tormented year. Beggarly, will-less age. / Permit me, oh my motherland. / To sob in your damp fatuous freedom / To weep amid your empty steppes: — ...»
«He loved these three things / White peacocks, evening songs, / And worn-out maps of America. / No crying of children, / No raspberry tea, / No women's hysterics… / I was married to him.»
«I wrung my hands under my dark veil… / "Why are you pale, what makes you reckless?" / — Because I have made my loved one drunk / with an astringent sadness. I’ll never forget. He went out, reeling; / his mouth was twisted, desolate . . . / I ran downstairs, not touching the banister...»
«Dark my veil. Hands clenched painfully, tightly. / "Why so white-faced?" "To think, just to think! / It was I made him to drink; of the biting / Wine of sorrow I forced him to drink. "How forget? Out he staggered with failing / Strength, and face oddly twisted and grim. / I ran down ...»