I don’t know, I can’t explain...
Do I love or do I die?
Is it a dream or is it Verlaine?
Is it spell or a prison cell?
Either the torment of the ideal
Or the beauty’s torment
Is spilled in the whole world
From a broken goblet.
The dream might be wrong as well
Whether she is the one,
In the light of the ideal
The dream might guess in vain
Is it spell or a prison cell?
Is it a dream or is it Verlaine?
But the roses of my cell
Breathed the scent to my lips,
And my dream will sing again
To the music of Verlaine.
Не могу понять, не знаю…
Это сон или Верлен?..
Я люблю иль умираю?
Это чары или плен?
Из разбитого фиала
Всюду в мире разлита
Или мука идеала,
Или муки красота.
Пусть мечта не угадала,
Та она или не та,
Перед светом идеала,
Пусть мечта не угадала,
Это сон или Верлен?
Это чары или плен?
Но дохнули розы плена
На замолкшие уста,
И под музыку Верлена
Будет петь моя мечта.
«Ancient mysteries of nature / Sleep in secret, sacred fields. / Mother Earth! I’m but a stranger / To your endless vales and hills. Vast of forests, breadth of waters, / Wings are strong below the sun. / But your ages and your wonders / Blur in planets’ endless run. Not by you, I w...»
«I don’t cry, nor long for, nor regretting – / Life is short like smoke of blooming trees. / In my fading chiton with ‘golden setting / I will be no longer young like this. You, my heart, will not go on as ever, / For the cold has touched your very core. / And the land of chintz and ...»
«Tell, uncle, it was not a boon / By fire Moscow burnt so soon / Enjoyed by Frenchmen tall? / Fierce fights... or wasn't there any? / There were, great battles, there were many, / For reason Russians, kids and granny, / This glorious day recall! Once was a folk that you...»
«– Hey tell, old man, had we a cause / When Moscow, razed by fire, once was / Given up to Frenchman's blow? / Old-timers talk about some frays, / And they remember well those days! / With cause all Russia fashions lays / About Borodino! / / – Yea, ...»