Life goes on, defying common sense.
Old men chatter in the southern sun:
“Moscow ballrooms… The weather in Simbirsk…
The War… Kerensky… We had freedom then…”
Before you know it — forty years in France,
a buzzing in the head, chill in the bones.
“Masonic plot… The Jews, all their infernal…
Ah, you were published? Where? Which journal?”
…In the dull sunshine there is peace and grace.
They wait and wait, but hope it won’t be long
before the old Cyrillic script regains its place,
before that age of gold re-dawns.
Жизнь продолжается рассудку вопреки.
На южном солнышке болтают старики:
— Московские балы… Симбирская погода…
Великая война… Керенская свобода…
И — скоро сорок лет у Франции в гостях.
Жужжанье в черепах и холодок в костях.
— Масонский заговор… Особенно евреи…
Печатались? А где? В каком Гиперборее?
…На мутном солнышке покой и благодать,
Они надеются, уже недолго ждать —
Воскреснет твердый знак, вернутся ять с фитою
И засияет жизнь эпохой золотою.
«A flock of keys I had feeding out of my hand, / To clapping of wings and croaking and feathery fight; / On tiptoe I stood and stretched out my arm, and the sleeve / Rolled up, so I felt at my elbow the nudging of night. And the dark. And a pond in the dark, and the lapping of waves. / And t...»
«Romantic youngsters, drunk with dreams of triumph, / They've pedalled off to continents unknown, / Two angels on two bicycles fast-flying — / My love and youth, and left me all alone. And now trying to retrace their route / With here a punctured tire and there a fall.... / But steady! H...»
«The sky, it's said, came down to meet the earth, / And so, it's said, Horizon came to birth. / This son of Earth and Sky I swore to find: / I ran... he ran... and left me far behind. / / Ah well, I thought, this rascal's hard to catch, / But one fine day he's going to find his match. I...»
«What on earth is there to hope for or expect? / Every day they see me off and meet me. / They're surrounding me with honour and respect / Like a fish with onions, nice and neatly. Are we really doomed to silent gloom, / Like an office left and closed at five? / Will men no longer hear my ...»