I don’t know the wisdom others seem to need,
Only little transient things I pour in my verse.
Everything that’s transient contains whole worlds for me,
Full of rainbow colors, shifting, playing, free.
Wise men, do not curse me. What am I to you?
See, I’m nothing but a cloud, a cloud that’s full of fire.
See, I’m nothing but a cloud. Watch me floating by.
And I cry out to dreams... But to you I do not cry.
Я не знаю мудрости, годной для других,
Только мимолётности я влагаю в стих.
В каждой мимолётности вижу я миры,
Полные изменчивой радужной игры.
Не кляните, мудрые. Что вам до меня?
Я ведь только облачко, полное огня.
Я ведь только облачко. Видите: Плыву.
И зову мечтателей… Вас я не зову!
«Where does such tenderness come from? / These curls that I stroke with my hand / Aren’t the first that I’ve stroked, and I / Knew lips that were darker than yours. The stars rose in the sky and faded, / Where does such tenderness come from? — / And glowing eyes also rose and faded /...»
«Here, in my Moscow, — cupolas shine.1 / Here, in my Moscow, — church bells chime. / And the tombstones, here, all stand aligned,2 / Tsarinas sleep there, and tsars. You wouldn’t know, but in the Kremlin, at dawn, / One breathes easier — and just here alone! / You wouldn’t know...»
«Above the city Peter had abandoned, / The church bells resonated thunder. Again, their crashing waves have swept / Above the woman that you’ve left. Tsar Peter, and you, tsar, shall be admired! / Yet, here, the bells are elevated higher. So long as they ring out from the blue — / The ...»
«Here’s a young girl, barely in bloom, / Who still does not lower her eyes, nor blush, / As I approach she gazes at me / With her dark impenetrable glance. / And if I had my way, I’d spend my whole life in Settignano, / Beside the wind-weathered stone of Septimus Severus. / I’d look...»