I thought that the heart made of stone,
That it’s fully empty and dead:
Though fire in it had been thrown,
It’s not damaged or just upset.
And that’s right: it was not tormented,
If — painful, then only a bit,
But, yet, it is better to end it,
Put out, while you can do it…
The heart is in darkness entire,
I’ve known: the victory’s mine —
At last, we extinguished the fire…
And, yet, in a smoke I die.
Я думал, что сердце из камня,
Что пусто оно и мертво:
Пусть в сердце огонь языками
Походит — ему ничего.
И точно: мне было не больно,
А больно, так разве чуть-чуть.
И все-таки лучше довольно,
Задуй, пока можно задуть…
На сердце темно, как в могиле,
Я знал, что пожар я уйму…
Ну вот… и огонь потушили,
А я умираю в дыму.
«A chart of living daubed I, quickly, / the paint from jam jar did I splatter; / I fingered plate of aspic, sickly / with curving prows through ocean water. / In scale of pickled herringed letter — / a proclamation from new lips. / And you / a nocturne could / ...»
«I blurred at once the map of humdrum, / by splashing colours like a potion; / I showed upon the dish of jelly / the slanted cheekbones of the ocean. Upon the scales of metal fishes / I read the new lips’ attitude. / But could you / now / ...»
«I splattered the pattern of weekdays at once / with color splashed out from a glass; / I showed you, on a dish of aspic, / the slanting cheekbones of the ocean. / Upon the scales of a tin fish / I read the calls of new lips. / And how about you, / ...»
«Wi a jaup the darg-day map’s owre-pentit — / I jibbled colour frae a tea-gless; / Ashets o jellyteen presentit / To me the gret sea’s camshach cheek-bleds. / A tin fish, ilka scale a mou — / I’ve read the cries o a new warld through’t. / But you / Wi den...»