to Valentina Serova
Well may I curse in years to come
The features of your face.
My love is like a cataclysm,
Transcending time and space.
There's not a friend or comrade dear
Who in the light of day
Could come into this flaming fire
And pull me clear away.
Despairing of escaping you
And raving like a fool,
As harnessed to an earthquake,
I live under your rule.
But when I come to free myself
From this hallucination,
I shall defend you when I hear
Their words of condemnation.
«Why do you number up her sins?
She's neither wrong nor right!
She's not a woman, she's a force,
A tempest in the night;
And feeling the approaching threat,
I went to meet the storm!
I did not stay, like you, indoors,
Where it was dry and warm.»
Пусть прокляну впоследствии
Твои черты лица,
Любовь к тебе — как бедствие,
И нет ему конца.
Нет друга, нет товарища,
Чтоб среди бела дня
Из этого пожарища
Мог вытащить меня.
Отчаявшись в спасении
И бредя наяву,
Как при землетрясении
Я при тебе живу.
Когда ж от наваждения
Себя освобожу,
В ответ на осуждения
Я про тебя скажу:
Зачем считать грехи её?
Ведь, не добра, не зла,
Не женщиной — стихиею
Вблизи она прошла.
И, грозный шаг заслыша, я
Пошёл грозу встречать,
Не став, как вы, под крышею
Её пережидать.
«The mournful waxworks has been open / For one year, two years, three years now. / An insolent and drunken crowd, / We run... The queen is waiting in her grave. She lies inside a coffin of glass, / She's neither dead nor living, / While people whisper endlessly / Immodest words about her...»
«In your innermost songs there are hidden / Fateful tidings of death. / A curse on sacred commandments, / And a profanation of joy. And such an alluring strength / That I'm ready to pass on the rumor / That you brought angels down / With your seductive beauty... And when you mock faith ...»
«The river spreads out. It flows, sorrowful, lazy / And washes the banks. / Above the bare clay of the yellow cliff / Haystacks languish on the steppe. O my Rus! My wife! Our long path / Is painfully clear! / Our path has pierced our breast like an arrow / Of ancient Tatar will. Our pat...»
«Above the restaurants in the evenings / The sultry air is wild and still, / And the decaying breath of spring / Drives drunken shouting. Above the dusty distant lanes / The boredom of summer homes, / The baker's gold sign barely shines / And a child's crying rings out. Each night, beyo...»