The sorrow of its roulade
Is betrothed to the dawn...
How glad I should be
Not to hear this toy!
Let it be the same tomorrow
As it was yesterday...
Though louder at first, its
Game continues more evenly...
But now, already not reading
The long-hateful notes,
The golden comb rings.
And does not sing...
Clutching at the nails, all
Made from unconnected phrases,
The tiresome story - this
Stammering delirium
About someone’s shortage —
Seeks in vain for an end...
Importunate lisping of
Grief of unarrived years.
Where there are neither tears of
Parting nor freezing of skies,
Where the heart is a meter of
Torments, a machine for miracles...
And tediously unwinding the
Spring for half an hour, where
There is hidden a ludicrous
And superfluous Beauty.
Обручена рассвету
Печаль ее рулад…
Как я игрушку эту
Не слушать был бы рад…
Пусть завтра будет та же
Она, что и вчера…
Сперва хоть громче, глаже
Идет ее игра.
Но вот, уж не читая
Давно постылых нот,
Гребенка золотая
Звенит, а не поет…
Цепляясь за гвоздочки,
Весь из бессвязных фраз,
Напрасно ищет точки
Томительный рассказ,
О чьем-то недоборе
Косноязычный бред…
Докучный лепет горя
Ненаступивших лет,
Где нет ни слез разлуки,
Ни стылости небес,
Где сердце — счетчик муки,
Машинка для чудес…
И скучно разминая
Пружину полчаса,
Где прячется смешная
И лишняя Краса.
«Do I need excuses / For divine mismatching? — / Poetry and music / Aren't cure-all magic. And why hum insanely / Tunes and verses hopeless? / Having nothing saintly / Feels more fun and homeless. And our gain is pretty / Minuscule and fleeting — / Only heartfelt pity, / So th...»
«T. O.-T. My evening, silver-feathered, / All-consecrating light! / As if no longer present, / I turn to you my sight – With gratefulness: for every / Revitalizing breath, / That in my final craving / You granted to my breast, For every elevation / Of your becalming hand, / For a...»
«Our rendezvous, their each and every moment, / we celebrated as a holy omen, / Epiphany for just the two of us. / As daring as a wing, more light than dust, / you, down the stairway, like a dizzy torrent / ran skipping treads, and navigated past / the veil of lilac to the territory / u...»
«You were sleeping, today, while I was looking about us / into the shadows, a horseman in patrol. / It was then I understood exactly how late it was: / how death is waiting on stage, and how everything passes, / and though it looks innocent to scribble these lines / poetry is no longer priv...»