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...
«Hell’s too small, heaven too small to contain you: / Everyone’s already at the point of dying for you. But to follow your brother, sadly, into the fire — / Really, is that customary? It’s not a sister’s / Place, to radiate passion! / Really, is it customary to lie in his barrow......»
«Time the upper reaches are laid bare, / Time you gaze into our souls — as into our eyes. / These — open sluices of blood! / These — open sluices of night! Our blood surged, like the night / Our blood surged, — like our blood / The night surged! (Upper regions of the ear / Time: ...»
«And perhaps, the finest victory / Over time and gravity — / Is to pass, without leaving a trace, / Is to pass, without leaving a shadow On the walls... / Finer perhaps — to exact / By refusal? To erase myself from mirrors? / Like: Lermontov moving ...»
«We are everywhere. We are nowhere. We walk / And the winter wind blows at us. / In churches both at dusk and during the day / It sings and blows out the candles. And it often seems that in the distance, / At dark walls or at a corner / Where we sang and passed, / There still sings and w...»