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.
«Immortality? For you two-legged moles, / Who aren’t worthy of even a day on earth? / Perhaps — after feeling deeply offended — / Lizards, toads, and worms will want the same... Petty bourgeois with wings! Gingerbread and cakes! / They gorged themselves for half a century and now they ...»
«A simian profile / With slits for eyes; / Dumpling lips and a potato nose: / Neither a girl nor a goat. Hair like a fishtail; / No bust, more like a frying pan; / And growing from the chin — / It’s terrible, I know — a beard. Choppy gestures, long feet, / Hands twisted backward...»
«Family — a mess of acquaintances — whiners, / An insufferable carnival of fools. / From work, from friends, from rotten politics / The brain is endlessly assailed. / Take books — garbage and filth: / One cat scratches, / Another licks, breeds filth / And mews sensually... Peter ...»
«All trousers are cut in the same way, / Same goes for whiskers, overcoats, even pots. / I am the same as everyone on the street / And blend in completely at the corner... But I would not trade in my personality / To become a member of it all, or it of me — / I wrap myself entirely in in...»