Youre in no way like other women at all:
You have laughter controlled and expressive,
You wear dresses measured and fashionably long
And you slip out from my embraces.
You do not cut your hair to look upscale,
Deepen brows or wear make up,
You have Smirnoff, but also a nightingale
Who in nature becomes his replacement,
You are able to see in the sugar the salt,
And in just uttered word, a full sentence.
In Akhmatova you value pain without halt
And in Gumilev - charm and cadence.
For you, connoisseur of all kinds of verse,
Sharpness of Sologubov means something,
And that you and Blok never did kiss
You are grieving sixth summer and counting.
And in your eyes, as they are now getting well —
Ocean breeze and a rye field in season.
Youre in no way like other women at all,
And youve become my wife for that reason.
Ты совсем не похожа на женщин других:
У тебя в меру длинные платья,
У тебя выразительный, сдержанный стих
И выскальзыванье из объятья.
Ты не красишь лица, не сгущаешь бровей
И волос не стрижешь в жертву моде.
Для тебя есть Смирнов, но и есть соловей,
Кто его заменяет в природе.
Ты способна и в сахаре выискать «соль»,
Фразу — в только намекнутом слове...
Ты в Ахматовой ценишь бессменную боль,
Стилистический шарм в Гумилеве.
Для тебя, для гурманки стиха, острота
Сологубовского триолета,
И, что Блока не поцеловала в уста,
Ты шестое печалишься лето.
А в глазах оздоравливающих твоих —
Ветер с моря и поле ржаное.
Ты совсем не похожа на женщин других,
Потому мне и стала женою.
«I’ll never forget it (did it happen or not, / This evening): The setting sun’s blaze / Drew open the sky and burned it, red hot, / And the streetlamps shone — in its rays. / I sat by the window and leaned on the pane. / Distant bows sang something of love. / I sent you a black rose...»
«There, a man burned. / Fet Among the crowds, it’s becoming harder / To act undead, when life is make-believe, / And to relate tragic play of ardor / To all of those who’ve yet to really live. And to inspect your nightmares and aspire / For order in the vortex of the heart, / So tha...»
«I while away my life in stride, / It’s senseless to me and redundant: / Today, I’m soberly — triumphant, / Tomorrow, I will — sing and cry. What if my death is getting nearer? / What if, behind me, stands a man, / Who, reaching with his massive hand, / Will block the image in t...»
«The night, the pharmacy, the street, / The pointless lamppost in the mist. / A quarter century recedes — / There’s no escape. It all persists. You’ll die — and you’ll begin anew, / As in the past, all will repeat: / The icy channel flowing through, / The lamp, the pharmacy, t»