No matter what went on around them; no matter
what message the snowstorm was straining to utter;
or how crowded they thought that wooden affair;
or that there was nothing for them anywhere.
Above their encampment, the sky. cold and idle,
and leaning as big things will do over little,
was burning a star, which from this very instant
had no place to go, save the gaze of the infant.
First, they were together. And — most of all — second,
they now were a threesome. Whatever was reckoned —
the stuff they were brewing, accruing, receiving —
was bound to be split into three, like this evening.
The campfire flared on its very last ember.
They all were asleep now. The star would resemble
no other, because of its knack, at its nadir,
for taking an alien for its neighbor.
Не важно, что было вокруг, и не важно,
о чем там пурга завывала протяжно,
что тесно им было в пастушьей квартире,
что места другого им не было в мире.
Морозное небо над ихним привалом
с привычкой большого склоняться над малым
сверкало звездою — и некуда деться
ей было отныне от взгляда младенца.
Во-первых, они были вместе. Второе,
и главное, было, что их было трое,
и всё, что творилось, варилось, дарилось
отныне, как минимум, на три делилось.
Костер полыхал, но полено кончалось;
все спали. Звезда от других отличалась
сильней, чем свеченьем, казавшимся лишним,
способностью дальнего смешивать с ближним.
«I do not regret, complain, or weep, / All passes, like smoke off the white apple trees. / Autumn’s gold has me in its withering grip. / I shall never be young again. My heart has felt the chill, / It no longer beats as it once did. / The birch woods cotton print / No more tempts me to...»
«From the start, each living thing’s / Got its own mark upon it. / I’d have been a thief and a cheat / If I’d not turned out a poet. Scrawny and undersized, / Always the hero of the gang, / I’d often come back home / With my nose bashed in. And when my scared mother saw me, / ...»
«Only one final trick remains — / To stick my fingers in my mouth, / And whistle! Now my evil name — / Foul-mouthed brawler—has got about. Ah, how farcical this waste was! / Farcical waste in life’s not new. / Ashamed I once believed in God, / I’m bitter I no longer do. Ah, yo...»
«Years of my youth, years of dissipation, / I poisoned you myself with a deadly poison. I do not know if death is close at hand or far. / My eyes which once were blue no longer are. Where are you, happiness? I weep, I cringe, all’s dark. / You’re nowhere to be found. Outside or in the bar...»