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.
«Neither by cart nor boat / Could you have got here. / On rotten snow / The deep water; / Farmsteads marooned and / Ah! that morose / Soul, that Robinson, / Is so close. / How often can / He inspect sledge and skis, / Return to the divan / To sit and wait for me? / And his sho...»
«Lying in me, as though it were a white / Stone in the depths of a well, is one / Memory that I cannot, will not, fight: / It is happiness and it is pain. / / Anyone looking straight into my eyes / Could not help seeing it, and could not fail / To become thoughtful, more sad and quiet ...»
«O there are words that should not be repeated, / And he who speaks them — is a spendthrift. / Inexhaustable is the sky’s blue spindrift / Alone, and the mercy of the Redeemer. »
«The cuckoo I asked / How many years I would live… The / Pine tops shivered, / A yellow shaft fell to the grass. / In the fresh forest depths, no sound… / I am going / Home, and the cool wind / Caresses my hot brow. »