The grip was so sweetly tight
That the purple of drowsiness
Faded — with my lips I learned
The coldness of pink, narrow pearls.
O sisters, O tender ten, two
Caressingly amicable families,
My desires are glad to veil
You with the canopy of night.
You are geishas of the lamp lightings,
Five roses betrothed to the stem,
But Cypris has nothing holier than
The I loves unspoken by you.
You are like mummies’ torturing musk,
Like tuberoses’ oppressive secret places —
And I only by a stem of meditations am
Rooted in the frightening fairy tale...
You are mine, O distant hands,
Your sweet-strong grip I nurtured
In the cold of ennui, I fanned
With a strange happiness...
But I know... becoming drowsily
Intoxicated, I will abandon
The magic thread, and I will
Dream words to offend you, almah.
Зажим был так сладостно сужен,
Что пурпур дремоты поблёк,—
Я розовых, узких жемчужин
Губами узнал холодок.
О сестры, о нежные десять,
Две ласково дружных семьи,
Вас пологом ночи завесить
Так рады желанья мои.
Вы — гейши фонарных свечений,
Пять роз, обрученных стеблю,
Но нет у Киприды священней
Не сказанных вами люблю.
Как мускус мучительный мумий,
Как душный тайник тубероз,
И я только стеблем раздумий
К пугающей сказке прирос…
Мои вы, о дальние руки,
Ваш сладостно-сильный зажим
Я выносил в холоде скуки,
Я счастьем обвеял чужим.
Но знаю… дремотно хмелея,
Я брошу волшебную нить,
И мне будут сниться, алмея,
Слова, чтоб тебя оскорбить.
«11 You block out everything, even the sun / at its highest, hold all the stars in your hand! / If only through—some wide open door, I / could blow like the wind to where you are, and starting to stammer, suddenly blushing, / could lower my eyes before you / and fall quiet, in tears, as...»
«1 Your name is a — bird in my hand / a piece of — ice on the tongue / one single movement of the lips. / Your name is: five signs, / a ball caught in flight, a / silver bell in the mouth a stone, cast in a quiet pool / makes the splash of your name, and / the sound is in the clat...»
«2 Tender — spectre / blameless as a knight, who / has called you into / my adolescent life? In blue dark, grey / and priestly, you / stand here, dressed in snow. And it’s not the wind / that drives me through the town now. / No, this is the third / night I felt the old enemy. ...»
«3 You are going — west of the sun now. / You will see there — evening light. / You are going — west of the sun and / snow will cover up your tracks. Past my windows — passionless / you are going in quiet snow. / Saint of God, beautiful, you / are the quiet light of my soul but...»