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.
«Who am I? What am I? Just a dreamer / Looking for a ring of happiness in the dark, / Living this life as if by happenstance, / Just like others on earth. And I’m only kissing you out of habit, / Because I’ve kissed many, / And speaking words of love / As though I’m lighting matche...»
«Goodbye, my friend, goodbye. / My dear, you’re in my chest. / This preordained parting / promises a reunion ahead. Goodbye, my friend, without a hand, without a word. / Don’t be sad and don’t furrow your brow. / In this life, dying isn’t news, / Though living, of course, isn’t»
«The sleepy garden scatters beetles / Like bronze cinders from braziers. / Level with me and with my candle / There hangs a flowering universe. As if into a new religion / I cross the threshold of this night, / Where the grey decaying poplar / Has veiled the moon's bright edge from sight...»
«Like a belated gift, / Winter’s palpable to me: / and I’m in love with / it’s first uncertain sweep. It’s terror’s beautiful, / like the start of what’s dreadful: / even the ravens fearful / of its leafless circle. But most intense, fragile – / is its bulging blueness: ...»