Finely, finely, as though from a
Sieve, the fog rains into the tarantass.
The pale day rises angrily, unable
To shake off its dizziness.
My long road is empty and flat...
Only at the black villages, endless
And ever more melancholy, like
Slanting rain, is there a wattle fence.
Hark!.. The crow’s cawing has
Awakened, the rooster rises in the hut,
And through clouds of sticky flies
The horses are treading ponderously.
But the knots of the gray tails
Of our troika’s three bays,
The bridges’ new planks, the
Black boards of the building -
All is swimming in mire and mess,
Softened and stuck together...
In the night I could not sleep
At all; can’t I try to here?
Yes, you fall asleep... and you
Lose your cap. That is what happens...
Keep to one side! - Just see! Wrapped
In rags, an Amazon is before me.
About seven years old. Her hands
Are grabbing the bridle and
They won’t let the jade graze;
And another is led on a rein.
Turning round, she looked with
Eager eyes at the carriage,
And jogged along in the fog,
To disappear like a mirage.
And drowsiness yielded to the
Biting reproach: “This is a
Festive day for her. This is
Morning, the morning of life!”
Мелко, мелко, как из сита,
В тарантас дождит туман,
Бледный день встает сердито,
Не успев стряхнуть дурман.
Пуст и ровен путь мой дальний…
Лишь у черных деревень
Бесконечный все печальней,
Словно дождь косой, плетень.
Чу… Проснулся грай вороний,
В шалаше встает пастух,
И сквозь тучи липких мух
Тяжело ступают кони.
Но узлы седых хвостов
У буланой нашей тройки,
Доски свежие мостов,
Доски черные постройки —
Все поплыло в хлябь и смесь,—
Пересмякло, послипалось…
Ночью мне совсем не спалось,
Не попробовать ли здесь?
Да, заснешь… чтоб быть без шапки.
Вот дела… — Держи к одной! —
Глядь — замотанная в тряпки
Амазонка предо мной.
Лет семи всего — ручонки
Так и впилися в узду,
Не дают плестись клячонке,
А другая — в поводу.
Жадным взглядом проводила,
Обернувшись, экипаж
И в тумане затрусила,
Чтоб исчезнуть, как мираж.
И щемящей укоризне
Уступило забытье:
«Это — праздник для нее.
Это — утро, утро жизни!»
«So as a sorry jester telling of the wicked weight / Of his hump, do I tell the tale of this my orphaned state. / Behind a prince, his kin. Behind a seraph, seraphim. / Behind each one there are a thousand others just like him, / To reassure him, when he staggers, with a living wall / Of th...»
«My verse written so early in my life / I didn't know I was a poet yet, / My verse which burst off, like drops from a fountain, / Or sparks from rocket jets; And burst like tiny demons through the holy / Sanctum where sleep and incense come together; / My verse that went on about death and...»
«How's life with the other woman? / Simpler, yeah? A stroke of oars / by a long coastline, and even / memory of me unmoors as a floating island (in the / sky, not on the waters)! Poor / spirits, souls! You should be solely / sisters and not paramours. How's life with an ordinary / ...»
«Chénier went up to meet the guillotine, / And I'm alive. That is a dreadful sin. / There are times that steel over everyone. / He is no bard who sings as bullets spin. / He is no father, trembling at the gate, / Whose arms rip battle-armor off his son. / There are times when the sun ...»