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!
«February. Get out the ink and weep! / Sob in February, sob and sing / While the wet snow rumbles in the street / And burns with the black spring. / / Take a cab. For a coin / Be carried through church bells, the chirp of tyres / To a place where the torrential rain / Is louder stil...»
«And I shall tell you at the end: / farewell, don’t pledge self to love, helpless. / I go mad, or just ascend / to the high echelon of madness. How had you loved? — You’d put aside / even the Death. But ‘tis not matter. / How had you loved? You’d done that right, / but you ...»
«No, tsarevich, it’s not I — / That you’re fancying in bliss, / Know, my lips just prophesy, / And no longer kiss. And it’s not because I’m tortured / Or by delirium swayed / That I conjure up misfortune: / It is just my trade. I can teach you this, as well, — / To achieve...»
« Out of your memory, I will remove this day, / So that your helpless gaze can question in a drowse: / Where I did see the Persian lilac sway, / The little swallows, and the wooden house? Hearing my name, you’re going to recall / Unnamed desires’ anguish in a snap, / And in despondent...»