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!
«When, in the cornfield, yellow waves are rising, / The wood is rustling at the sound of soft wind, / And, in the garden, crimson plums are hiding / In pleasant shade of leaves, so shining ones and green; When, spilled with fragrant dew in calmness of the alley, / In morning of a gold or eve...»
«We stood in the ranks — as a mute crowd, once, / While putting our friend to a ground, / Heard our chaplain's murmur and, by chance, / The roar of a tempest around. / The shakos sparkled over the sacred abode, / Immovable ones in a cloud, / With a...»
«Waves roll in columns on their usual route — / Splashing and humming, they run; / People, too, stride in a lousy crowd — / Every one trails everyone. / Waves favor cold of their slavery more / Than heat of midday sunny rays, / People take care of their souls...»
«Enough of sparing shameful sin! / Are, truly, blackguards' shields — the crowns? / Let fools adore them herein, / Let t'other lyre pour them sounds. / But, you, Bard, stop singing forthwith, / A golden wreath is not your wreath. While living from your land apart / Be proud as with lif...»