“You are waiting? You are nervous? This
Is delirium. You are going to open up
To him? No! Understand this: a madman
Is knocking at your door; God knows where
And with whom he has spent the entire
Night, ragged, and his speech wild,
And his hand full of pebbles; at any moment he
Will empty the other hand, he will pelt you with
Dry leaves, or he will think of kissing you, and
Traces of tears will be left in the tangle of
Plaits, if you succeed in hiding your face
From his lips, confused and painfully crimson.
. . . . .
Listen!.. I was only scaring you: That one
Is far away, he is dead... I lied. And the
Complainings, and whisperings, and rappings,
All this is the “blood’s rustling,” the voices
Of pain, which we endure, either I or you...
Or were the whirlwinds taken prisoner, and were
Howling? But no! You are calm... Only your
Lips are slightly touched by something pale...
I’m a fool... the meeting here was arranged with
Someone else... Now I understand it all: the
Fright, the faintness and the moist shining of
Your shielded eyes...” They knock? They are
Coming? She rose... I look-she has turned the lamp low,
It is pink... Now she has let her plaits
Fall down, the plaits flew up and fell...
Now she comes to me... and we are in fire,
In the one fire... Now hands are twining
Round me and dragging me to her, and the hair
Both pricks and caresses... Such is it, a
Man’s mind, that proud one, not deserving either
Palpitating hearts or moist and rosy heat!..
. . . . .
And suddenly I became an entirely different being...
The bed... the candle alight... the rain
Lisping in a melancholy tone. I had slept and dreamed.
«Вы ждете? Вы в волненьи? Это бред.
Вы отворять ему идете? Нет!
Поймите: к вам стучится сумасшедший,
Бог знает где и с кем всю ночь проведший,
Оборванный, и речь его дика,
И камешков полна его рука;
Того гляди — другую опростает,
Вас листьями сухими закидает,
Иль целовать задумает, и слез
Останутся следы в смятеньи кос,
Коли от губ удастся скрыть лицо вам,
Смущенным и мучительно пунцовым.
..............
Послушайте!.. Я только вас пугал:
Тот далеко, он умер… Я солгал.
И жалобы, и шепоты, и стуки, —
Все это «шелест крови», голос муки…
Которую мы терпим, я ли, вы ли…
Иль вихри в плен попались и завыли?
Да нет же! Вы спокойны… Лишь у губ
Змеится что-то бледное… Я глуп…
Свиданье здесь назначено другому…
Все понял я теперь: испуг, истому
И влажный блеск таимых вами глаз».
Стучат? Идут? Она приподнялась.
Гляжу — фитиль у фонаря спустила,
Он розовый… Вот косы отпустила.
Взвились и пали косы… Вот ко мне
Идет… И мы в огне, в одном огне…
Вот руки обвились и увлекают,
А волосы и колют, и ласкают…
Так вот он ум мужчины, тот гордец,
Не стоящий ни трепетных сердец,
Ни влажного и розового зноя!
..............
И вдруг я весь стал существо иное…
Постель… Свеча горит. На грустный тон
Лепечет дождь… Я спал и видел сон.
«My friend, I'm really just sorry / about who, in secret blindness, / passing all length of the green alley, / just can not notice on leaves / the striking network of the streaks / and points of the tubercles / or even the serrated tracks / from saws of the blue-horned slugs.»
«What does my heart indeed just need / to be happy? So not a lot... / I like animals, trees, God, / A beam — at noon,darkness — at night. And on the edge of outside / I'll say: where was affliction? / I sang, and if I ever cried — / so only with tears of admiration.»
«If all silver that falls to us / At night from the moon, / And all gold that goes to us / From the sun at noon, I'd just bring to her...She'd tell me, / "Oh, my dear poet, / Give me such a precious metal / That is underground!"»
«When the moonlight dispassionately illuminates / The world that is asleep at night,quite all this world, / Sometimes it seems this light just penetrates / In the departed world like under a burial vault. By the moonlight it seems this world is afterlife, / And that before this life we lived...»