by Mikhail Taranov, 1953-1955
«“Nuestra pasión fué un trágico soneto. ” / — G. A. Becquer My love is a tragic sonnet. / In it, there is the imperious structure of the sonnet’s repetitions, / Of separations and meetings, and new returns — / The surf of Fate from the darkness of former years. The unconsummate...»
«Bitter and wild — the smell of the earth: / The fields are o’ergrown with dark carnations! / Having flung my garments onto the grass, / I burn, like a candle, in the evening field. / Running into the distance, my steps are moist, / Tenderly naked, I blossom by the water. / Like white...»
«They’ve locked the door of my abode / With a key lost forever; / The Black Angel, my guardian, / Stands with a flaming sword, But my anguish won’t see / The luster of the wreath and the purple of the throne, / And on my maidenly hand — / The useless ring of Solomon. The rubies of...»
«Ego vox ejus! In the blind nights of the new moon, / Filled with a mute anxiety, / Bewitched by a sorceress, / I am standing by a dark window. The candles, doubled by the glass, / Shine both before and behind me, / And the strange appearance of the room / Threatens with the chance of a...»