Nothing but anniversaries, anniversaries...
Our liter reeks like a kitchen!
To judge by it, all Russia
Is teeming with great men:
After their deaths, it’s certain.
Following magnificent empty sanctimonies,
A hundred Pantheons
And a hundred Westminster Abbeys won’t suffice.
Всё юбилеи, юбилеи…
Жизнь наша кухнею разит!
Судя по ним, людьми большими
Россия вся кишмя-кишит;
По смерти их, и это ясно,
Вослед великих пустосвятств,
Не хватит нам ста Пантеонов
И ста Вестминстерских аббатств…
«Night. City calmed down. / Behind the large window / It is quiet and solemnly, / As if a man dies. But there somebody stands simply sad, / Distracted by failure, / With the open collar, / And looks at the stars. "Stars, stars, / Tell me the reason for this melancholy!" And again loo...»
«All thought of prowess, valiant deeds and fame / Would leave me on this suffering earth when on / Your lovely face I gazed that glowed and shone / Before me in its simple wooden frame. But your fate to another you surrendered, / You left, and I… I flung into the night / The cherished ri...»
«I'll never forget (did it happen, or not, / That evening): the sunset's fire / Consumed and split the pale sky, / And streetlamps flared against the yellow sunset. I sat by the window in a crowded room. / Distant bows were singing of love. / I sent you a black rose in a goblet / Of cham...»
«I shall not forget it (that evening either / Happened, or did not): the pallid sky / Was burned and sundered by the sunset’s / Fire, and against the yellow glow of street lamps. I sat at the window in the overcrowded room. / Somewhere, the fiddlers sang of love. / I sent you a black ros...»