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!
«Pray before sleep, / That you don’t wake up famous.»
«...And I simply wouldn’t come near it, / Renouncing all earthly goods. / “This place’s” guardian spirit / Became a snag in the woods. In this life, we are all merely guests, / Life, itself, is a habit, no doubt. / I can hear, in the aerial jets, / Two voices conversing aloud. O...»
«On hearing thunder, you’ll recall my face, / You’ll think: She wished for storms and lightning... / The skyline of hard-crimson will be widening, / The heart will be, as it was then, — ablaze. / It’ll happen on some Moscow day like this, / I’ll leave this city far behind for good...»
«Confusion I The burning light was stifling, / His glances – like the rays. / I only shuddered slightly: / This one can tame my ways. / He’ll lean in, speaking, brazen… / I’m pale, out of fright. / Let love become the gravestone / That lies upon my life.»