To Valia Khmara-Barshchevsky
Having taken leave of the starry Wastes,
Palm Week was sailing on the
Last doomed piece of frozen snow
Into defunct April’s yellow dusk.
It was sailing in fragrant smoke, in
The fainting of death knells, from
Icons with profound eyes and from
Lazaruses forgotten in the black pit.
The white moon on the wane rose high, and
For all whose life was irretrievable,
Ardent tears swam along the palm
Branch on to a cherub’s rosy cheeks.
Вале Хмара-Барщевскому
В жёлтый сумрак мёртвого апреля,
Попрощавшись с звездною пустыней,
Уплывала Вербная Неделя
На последней, на погиблой снежной льдине.
Уплывала в дымах благовонных,
В замираньи звонов похоронных,
От икон с глубокими глазами
И от Лазарей, забытых в чёрной яме.
Стал высоко белый месяц на ущербе,
И за всех, чья жизнь невозвратима,
Плыли жаркие слёзы по вербе
На румяные щёки херувима.
«She raised herself on her fingers / and made me a gift of her lips. / I kissed her a little tiredly / in the moist autumn silence. Tears were dropping soundlessly / in the moist autumn silence. / The dreary day expired, we weary / like everything that isn't in a dream.»
«Dust fills the nostrils — the horses neigh. / Acacias molt over the firewood stacks. / In the wind the red hemp is asway. / The sun stands in the middle of the backyard, / The lunch-break arrives, having gnawed / its way through the growling soot of the day. I'm home, til dusk. All is q...»
«I cannot remember — at just which nightstop / the itch of future life has crawled through me. / The world did shudder. / A star tripped on its run, / and fell into a blue-enameled basin. / I reached for it... But, it has washed away, / between my fingers — a red-scaled ide. / The ...»
«Here I am back again in this land. / I pass by / Again under the young planetrees, / Again, children run amid the parkbenches, / Again, the sea lies covered in the smoke of ships... / Here I am, a volunteer, in epaulets, / Edged in colored piping, - / Here I am, a warrior, the hero of ...»