Bending a wall round the muzzle’s spot.
The misty ice is momentarily gilded...
I am confused by your burning prison,
Formerly blue dream of spring!
Wearied by vain scintillation, you
Both weep and rend yourself, trembling.
But the sun has no triumphant ray
For miracles in the red haze of noon.
You recall a star’s face, but another’s.
Not those flowers looked at themselves in
You, and your end will come upon a patient’s
Heart, if you do not suffocate under earth.
But do not wish to preserve your blue captivity
As a silent witness until spring’s charms
Arrive... You are no dream, you will be only
Decay to the unfettered, thunder-sounding waves.
Пятно жерла стеною огибая,
Минутно лед туманный позлащен…
Мечта весны, когда-то голубая,
Твоей тюрьмой горящей я смущен.
Истомлена сверканием напрасным,
И плачешь ты, и рвешься трепеща,
Но для чудес в дыму полудня красном
У солнца нет победного луча.
Ты помнишь лик светила, но иного,
В тебя не те гляделися цветы,
И твой конец на сердце у больного,
Коль под землей не задохнешься ты.
Но не желай свидетелям безмолвным
До чар весны сберечь свой синий плен…
Ты не мечта, ты будешь только тлен
Раскованным и громозвучным волнам.
«In Germany once lived a censor / of lowly rank and title. / He blotted, struck and cancelled / and knew no other no other calling. He sniffed out harmful diction / and smeared it with Indian ink. / He guarded minds from infection / and his bosses valued his work. On a winter day in for...»
«Here sways a tree: — Farewell! — / There a house calls out: — Stranger, stay! — / The road leads forth: — Mount me, walk / on my weathered skin, stomp me with your heel, / Don't trust these houses calling you to settle down. / Trust in the tree and trust in me. / ...»
«The forties, fateful, / warring, frontline, / with funeral notices, / clattering trains. / The hum of the rails. / All is cold, high and barren. / Their houses have burned — / they’re heading east. / That’s me at the station / in my scruffy wool cap. / The star’s not stan...»
«How bare the countryside! What dearth / How stark the hamlets’ desolation... / Long-suffering country of my birth, / poor homeland of the Russian nation. Never will the stranger’s gaze / look deeper to perceive or guess / what hidden light there is that plays / and shimmers through...»