Where can I look, where can I go,
to find that almost Alpine snow,
all sacrificed so life can grow,
all turned by May to splash and flow,
to breath of dandelion and rose,
to mighty wave or shining billow —
into that foolish question posed
by François Villon long ago?
Где прошлогодний снег, скажите мне?..
Нетаявший, почти альпийский снег,
Невинной жертвой отданный весне,
Апрелем обращенный в плеск и бег,
В дыханье одуванчиков и роз,
Взволнованного мира светлый вал,
В поэзию... В бессмысленный вопрос,
Что ей Виллон когда-то задавал.
«Jazz, harmonika! Boredom... Boredom... / Fingers, strewn up and down in streams. / Drink it with me! Drink down, you bitch, rotten! / Drink with me! You’ve been loved at full stretch and worn all o’er, / Drives me mad! / Off with staring at me with your deep blue globs! / Feel like ...»
«No regrets, no cries, no pain will ever / Touch my heart like blossoms touch a tree / Withering with autumn, I will never / Be the young man that I used to be You, my heart, are slowing down already / As you’re freezing inch by inch inside / Barefooted, wild me — how upsetting! — / ...»
«You were watering a horse from your hands by the lake, / I was watching reflections dance, shiver and break. From my window I watched as your blue shawl unpinned, / Your black serpently curls flying free in the wind. In my shimmering dream, there was no greater bliss / Than to steal a sharp ...»
«Ancient mysteries of nature / Sleep in secret, sacred fields. / Mother Earth! I’m but a stranger / To your endless vales and hills. Vast of forests, breadth of waters, / Wings are strong below the sun. / But your ages and your wonders / Blur in planets’ endless run. Not by you, I w...»