With a passion I detest the saintly —
Their scrupulous and tortured concerns
And shallow thoughts are for themselves;
Themselves alone exclusively they save.
They fear exclusively for their souls,
In terror of their dreams' gaping abyss
And of that ancient poisoner the Worm
They execute without guilty conscience.
I would have hated heaven just as well,
Among those shades with meekly smiles,
Where the eternal holiday, forever May,
Proceeds on its measured, pacing way.
I have no wish to live in Paradise
While executing the Serpent's wiles.
From childhood years I've loved the Asp
And am amazed by it as by a masterpiece.
I have no wish to live in Paradise
Among dullards writhing in ecstasy.
I'm dying, I'm destroyed, am killed — I sing,
The mind-deprived demon of dreams lyrical.
Я ненавижу всех святых,
Они заботятся мучительно
О жалких помыслах своих,
Себя спасают исключительно.
За душу страшно им свою,
Им страшны пропасти мечтания,
И ядовитую Змею
Они казнят без сострадания.
Мне ненавистен был бы Рай
Среди теней с улыбкой кроткою,
Где вечный праздник, вечный май
Идёт размеренной походкою.
Я не хотел бы жить в Раю,
Казня находчивость змеиную,
От детских дней люблю Змею,
И ей любуюсь, как картиною.
Я не хотел бы жить в Раю,
Меж тупоумцев экстатических,
Я гибну, гибну, — и пою,
Безумный демон снов лирических.
«She has not taken her first sigh — / She is the word and music both — / And thus of all that lives and grows / A timeless and unbroken tie. Placidly breathe the breasts of sea / The day is bright, as if gone mad, / The sea foam's pallid lilacs stand / In vase of lapis lazuli. O, wo...»
«She has yet to be born: / she is music and word, / and she eternally bonds / all life in this world. / / The sea breathes gently; / the day glitters wildly. / A bowl of dazed azure / sways pale foam-lilac. / / May I too reach back / to that ancient silence, / like a note of...»
«— She’s at the riverbed, in algae, covered / With weeds... She went to sleep there, / But there’s no dream there, as it happens. / — But I loved her, / Loved more than forty thousand brothers / Ever could have loved! / — Hamlet...»
«— She's — She's in the riverbed, in algae / And weeds...She went to them / To sleep, — but there's no sleep there, either! / — But she's the one I loved / Like forty thousand brothers / Couldn't love! / — Hamlet! / She's in the riverbed, ...»