We are at a small station.
We are forgotten by the night,
By the still, moonlit night.
In a little forest glade...
Delirium-or are we plainly
At a small station and
Forgotten by the night?
You have gone far away.
Tired steam locomotive...
The boards are pale yellow,
Silvery yellow, and
Lifeless, thawing hoar
Frost clings to the ties.
Have you really gone to the
Right spot, tired steam
Engine? Such stillness in
The moonlight, or is this
Only a dream, these
Shadows, these locomotive
Gasps, and, silvered
Over by the pearly moon,
This long black
Station guard with
His useless lantern
On the patterned shadow?
Ding, ding, ding! — and
It’s past, past this
Dream, so irreparably,
So irremediably, not
Sung through to the end.
And ringing somewhere
Scarcely perceptibly.
Мы на полустанке,
Мы забыты ночью,
Тихой лунной ночью,
На лесной полянке…
Бред — или воочью
Мы на полустанке
И забыты ночью?
Далеко зашел ты,
Паровик усталый!
Доски бледно-желты,
Серебристо-желты,
И налип на шпалы
Иней мертво-талый.
Уж туда ль зашел ты,
Паровик усталый?
Тишь-то в лунном свете,
Или только греза
Эти тени, эти
Вздохи паровоза
И, осеребренный
Месяцем жемчужным,
Этот длинный, черный
Сторож станционный
С фонарем ненужным
На тени узорной?
Динь-динь-динь — и мимо,
Мимо грезы этой,
Так невозвратимо,
Так непоправимо
До конца не спетой,
И звенящей где-то
Еле ощутимо.
«We are cultured: we clean our teeth, / Mouth, and both boots. / In letters, we are especially polite: / “Your most obedient servant.” So then, why do we end / Any kind of debate — / like weak fools — / Imitating Papuans / And beating each other on the snouts? / True, it is u...»
«From the diary of a contemporary At wit’s end, I went to the doctor. / He pushed a pince-nez down on his nose: / “Nerves. Anxiety. Too soon to tell... / “So, I’ll prescribe / Guniyadi Janos.” The blood pounded in my temples: / Guniyadi?! For questions, / For disbelief, for bo...»
«Immortality? For you two-legged moles, / Who aren’t worthy of even a day on earth? / Perhaps — after feeling deeply offended — / Lizards, toads, and worms will want the same... Petty bourgeois with wings! Gingerbread and cakes! / They gorged themselves for half a century and now they ...»
«A simian profile / With slits for eyes; / Dumpling lips and a potato nose: / Neither a girl nor a goat. Hair like a fishtail; / No bust, more like a frying pan; / And growing from the chin — / It’s terrible, I know — a beard. Choppy gestures, long feet, / Hands twisted backward...»