The heart of another (yours, reader?
Yours, dreamer?
Yours, stranger?)
Beats in my breast,
Growing heavier, more unrhythmical,
Night and day and even in sleep,
Repeating over and over —
Something I don’t understand.
On the wall, the floor, the window —
Silvery moonlight flecks;
And the ringing nightingale song
Of full moon delirium,
Swarthy mugs in the mirrors,
And enchanting, delicate faces —
Blur in the trembling of moon,
Though these are my own reflection,
None resemble me,
But beyond, in the mirrors, like a backdrop,
Terror scatters in sparks.
— Help me! Help!
Far away on the Island of Crete
A labyrinth, a bloodthirsty Minotaur,
And Ariadne’s guiding thread.
There are other threads too —
They will lead you to me —
Seek, oh seek them out!
Сердце чужое (ваше, читатель?
Ваше, мечтатель?
Ваше, прохожий?)
Бьется в груди моей
Всё разностопнее, всё тяжелей
Ночью, и днем, и даже во сне,
Повторяя одно и то же,
Непонятное мне.
На стене, на полу, на окне —
Серебристолунные блики,
И звенит соловьиное пение
Полнолунного наваждения.
В зеркалах черномазые рожи
И прелестные нежные лики —
Расплываются в лунной дрожи,
Хоть они и мое отраженье,
Все они на меня не похожи,
А за ними, как фон, в зеркалах
Рассыпается искрами страх.
— Помогите мне! Помогите!
Далеко на острове Крите
Лабиринт, Минотавр кровожадный
И ведущая нить Ариадны.
Но найдутся другие нити,
Те, что вас приведут ко мне, —
Отыщите их, отыщите!
«I splashed some colours from a tumbler / and smeared the drab world with emotion. / I charted on a dish of jelly / the jutting cheekbones of the ocean. / Upon the scales of a tin salmon / I read the calls of lips yet mute. / And you, / could you have played a noc...»
«Windows split the city’s great hell / into tiny hellets — vamps with lamps. / The cars, red devils, exploded their yells / right in your ear, rearing on their rumps. And there, under the signboard with herrings from Kerch / an old man, knocked down, stooping to search / for his specs,...»
«Now, listen! / Surely, if the stars arc lit / there’s somebody who longs for them, / somebody who wants them to shine a bit, / somebody who calls it, that wee speck of spittle, a gem? And overridden / by blizzards of midday dust, / tears in to God, / afraid that it’s too late, / ...»
«You, wallowing through orgy alter orgy, / owning a bathroom and warm, snug toilet! / How dare you read about awards of St. Georgi / from newspaper columns with your blinkers oily?! Do you realise, multitudinous nonentities / thinking how better to fill your gob, / that perhaps just now Pe...»