On the boundary of snow and melting.
Of movement and repose.
Of light-mindedness and of despair —
Is palpitation, virtigo.
Blue night of solitude —
Life smashes itself to bits.
First name and patronymic vanish
And the surname runs like ink...
Like stars, the prophecies rise
And fall away . . . . They are not fulfilled!
На границе снега и таянья,
Неподвижности и движения,
Легкомыслия и отчаяния —
Сердцебиение, головокружение...
Голубая ночь одиночества —
На осколки жизнь разбивается,
Исчезают имя и отчество,
И фамилия расплывается...
Точно звезды, встают пророчества,
Обрываются!.. Не сбываются!..
«For three days now I’ve spoken with no one... / My thoughts are greedy and malicious. / My back hurts. Everywhere I look, / I see only sky-blue patches. The church bell was droning. It stopped. / I am alone with myself. / Silk of scarlet creaks and bends / Beneath the clumsy needle. ...»
«In her shameless and pathetic baseness, / Like dust, she is gray, like mortal remains. / And I am dying of this fatal closeness, / Because she cannot be dissolved from me. She is rough and she is thorny; / She is cold — she is a snake. / I am wounded all over by her sickly-burning, / ...»
«There, where red water from the sunrise / Seems spilled across the cabbage rows, / A maple sapling stretches to nurse / From its mother tree’s green udders.»
«It’s evening. Dew / Sparkles the nettles. / I stand in the roadway / Resting among willows. Moon’s light is strong / Striking our roofs. / I listen to the song, / Nightingales far off. It’s warm and nice / Like winter by a stove. / Like tall candles / Birches stand above. ...»