When the moonlight dispassionately illuminates
The world that is asleep at night,quite all this world,
Sometimes it seems this light just penetrates
In the departed world like under a burial vault.
By the moonlight it seems this world is afterlife,
And that before this life we lived somewhere,
That we — is not we but an echo of other life
Like prisoners in a prison without an exit there.
We scurry about this mysterious prison as shadows,
The future is alien to us, the past we just forgot,
And being wrapped in dreams so steeped in leaden drowse,
We do not live but only the right to live just hold...
Когда свет месяца бесстрастно озаряет
Заснувший ночью мир и всё, что в нём живет,
Порою кажется, что свет тот проникает
К нам, в отошедший мир, как под могильный свод.
И мнится при луне, что мир наш — мир загробный,
Что где-то, до того, когда-то жили мы,
Что мы — не мы, послед других существ, подобный
Жильцам безвыходной, таинственной тюрьмы.
И мы снуём по ней какими-то тенями,
Чужды грядущему и прошлое забыв,
В дремоте тягостной, охваченные снами,
Не жизнь, но право жить как будто сохранив...
«Yearning for homeland! Long / Exposed torment! / It’s completely all the same to me – / Where completely alone To be, over which stones to trudge / With a market tote, on the way home, / Into a house that doesn’t know – it’s mine, / As if it were an infirmary, a barracks. It...»
«A pale moon, on the wane, / The air sonorous, dead and clear, / And on the naked, nippy willow / Murmurs a wilted leaf. Catches frost, gets heavier / In the abyss of a quiet pond. / Darkens and thickens / The stirless water. A pale moon on the wane / Is lying dead, / And on the nak...»
«The sick, tired ice, / The sick and slushy snow… / And all is flowing, flowing… / How blithesome is the vernal run / Of mighty turbid waters! / And cries the hoary snow, / And dies the ice. / The air is full of bliss, / And the bell is singing. / From the arrows of spring will ...»
«Riveting our eyes / On the blanching east, / Children of sorrow, children of night, / We wait, to see if our prophet shall come. / We are scenting out the unseen, / And, with hope in our hearts, / Dying, we grieve / Over uncreated worlds. / Our speech is daring, / But condemned to ...»