Hands — in the dips
Of all resold, repledged, repossessed!
It’s just the lips,
The hands I mustn’t confuse with the rest!
All those vain
Petty things that steal me from sanity.
Hands to heaven,
Friend, here I plead to my own memory!
My poetry
(The dumping ground of my Highnesses!)
Is not to see
You wilt like every other guy once has.
My breast is deep
(Being a thousand-breast-wide mass
Grave!) – May it keep
You clear of rain as the millennia pass…
Midst bodies, may
You — my damnation two-starry-eyed! —
Never decay,
Tagged: unidentified.
Руки — и в круг
Перепродаж и переуступок!
Только бы губ,
Только бы рук мне не перепутать!
Этих вот всех
Суетностей, от которых сна нет.
Руки воздев
Друг, заклинаю свою же память!
Чтобы в стихах
(Свалочной яме моих Высочеств!)
Ты не зачах,
Ты не усох наподобье прочих.
Чтобы в груди
(В тысячегрудой моей могиле
Братской!) — дожди
Тысячелетий тебя не мыли...
Тело меж тел,
— Ты, что мне пропадом был двухзвёздным!..
Чтоб не истлел
С надписью: не опознан.
«I hate the roar of giant cities, neighborhoods, / I am repulsed by crowd commotion, / My spirit lives in depths of woods, / Where in secluded calm devotion / I hark to music of unseen sweet voices' moods, / ...»
«This woman! I grow mute and hazy. / Because of this, see, I avert my eyes. / I don’t trust the cuckoos or the daisies, / And I don’t visit Gypsies for advice. They’ll be preaching: do not love her, / They’ll be screeching: it is all deceit, / They will prophesy, foretell, foreshad...»
«What did I say to Maria the nurse / when I was hugging her? / "You know that officer’s daughters / don’t look on us soldiers." And the field of clovers was beneath us / quite like the river. / And the waves of the clovers became higher / and we swayed upon them. And Maria, opening ...»
«What's friendship? The hangover's languid burn, / restless talk of being spurned, / swapping vanity, slacking / or the shame of a patron’s backing.»