With this inhuman fate
How can one argue? How can one fight?
This is mirage, illusion.
Still this blue evening yet
Is my domain, possession.
And the sky is red between the trees
While it is pearly on the sides…
In lilacs the nightingale still whistles.
The ant crawls in grass between the thistles –
And someone needs it otherwise.
Someone might even think it’s fair
That I can still breathe in this air
That my old-fashioned coat
Is soaked in sunset on the right
And drowned in stars on the left side.
С бесчеловечною судьбой
Какой же спор? Какой же бой?
Все это наважденье.
…Но этот вечер голубой
Еще мое владенье.
И небо. Красно меж ветвей,
А по краям жемчужно…
Свистит в сирени соловей,
Ползет по травке муравей —
Кому-то это нужно.
Пожалуй, нужно даже то,
Что я вдыхаю воздух,
Что старое мое пальто
Закатом слева залито,
А справа тонет в звездах.
«Snowy plain, white moon. / Our land is draped in a shroud. / Dressed in white, the birches cry in the woods. / Who perished here? Who died? Could it be me?»
«On the edge of a juniper grove / Autumn, the red mare, walks quietly / Dropping leaves from its mane on the ground. And the clang of its hoofs is heard / In the mist of the river banks / Where no wind goes round. But the wanderer, it raises the foliage / On the roads and rustles it, / ...»
«I quivered. I flared up, and then was extinguished. / I shook. I had made a proposal — but late, / Too late. I was scared, and she had refused me. / I pity her tears, am more blessed than a saint. I stepped into the square. I could be counted / Among the twice-born. Every leaf on the ...»
«The muffled sound of the fruit / that carefully broke from a branch, / amid the incessant chant / of the silence deep in the woods...»