Early yet — to no longer be!
Early yet — to no longer burn!
Tenderness! A brutal lash
Of Underworld encounters.
However deep your inclination —
The sky — is a fathomless vat!
O, for such a love it’s
Early yet — to not feel wounded!
Life is alive with jealousy!
Blood lusts to stream
On the ground. Does a widow
Give up her right — to the sword?
Life is alive with jealousy!
Loss is consecrated to
My heart! Does grass
Give up its right — to the scythe?
The secret thirst of grasses...
Every new shoot says: “crush me”...
Having dispensed with bindings,
My wounds remain — my own!
And until You suture us
— I bleed! — until You press my wound —
Early yet for the frozen reaches
Of the Underworld!
Рано ещё — не быть!
Рано ещё — не жечь!
Нежность! Жестокий бич
Потусторонних встреч.
Как глубоко́ ни льни —
Небо — бездонный чан!
О, для такой любви
Рано ещё — без ран!
Ревностью жизнь жива!
Кровь вожделеет течь
В землю. Отдаст вдова
Право своё — на меч?
Ревностью жизнь жива!
Благословен ущерб
Сердцу! Отдаст трава
Право своё — на серп?
Тайная жажда трав…
Каждый росток: «сломи»…
До лоскута раздав,
Раны ещё — мои!
И пока общий шов
— Льюсь! — не наложишь Сам —
Рано ещё для льдов
Потусторонних стран!
«How I crave immortality, dying. / Clouds of dust come low from afar... / Let the naked red devils come flying, / With the cauldrons of foul-smelling tar. Playing tricks, crawl up to me, lurking, / Threats from books, all tattered and bent, / Only leave me my memory working / Just my mem...»
«He absolved me of sin and he quieted down. / The violet dusk blew out the flame. / The dark prayer stole fell spreading around / My shoulders, my head and my frame. Is this not the voice that said: “Maiden! arise…” / The heart beats fast, at a loss, / The touch of the hand as it abs...»
«Books and a pencil case in a strap, as I / Sauntered home, with the school receding. / These lindens, I’m sure, won’t forget the time, / My merry boy, of our very first meeting. / Only now that little cygnet, once gray, / Changed, becoming a haughty swan, / And sorrow descended like ...»
«Ever since St. Agrafena’s day, / He has kept my crimson shawl. / He gloats like King David, enthralled. / His frosty cell has walls of gray, / And no one talks to him at all. I’ll go to his door and stand in his way, / “Return my shawl to me!” I’ll say. »