12
His friends — do not bother him!
His servants — do not bother him!
From his face it was evident deemed:
Not from this world does my kingdom come.
Eternal snowstorms circled the veins
Hunched-over shoulders bent from the wings,
In singing cut, into baked-over flame
He let his soul go like a swan.
Fall then, O fall then, copper heavy!
Wings are ordained correctly: To fly!
Lips, that have shouted the word: Reply! —
They know, that this is not there — to die!
He drinks the dawn, drinks the sea —
Revels in full. — Don't serve the requiem!
Of one who forever ordered: Be! —
There is enough bread left to feed him!
Други его — не тревожьте его!
Слуги его — не тревожьте его!
Было так ясно на лике его:
Царство моё не от мира сего.
Вещие вьюги кружили вдоль жил,
Плечи сутулые гнулись от крыл,
В певчую прорезь, в запёкшийся пыл —
Лебедем душу свою упустил!
Падай же, падай же, тяжкая медь!
Крылья изведали право: лететь!
Губы, кричавшие слово: ответь! —
Знают, что этого нет — умереть!
Зори пьёт, море пьёт — в полную сыть
Бражничает. — Панихид не служить!
У навсегда повелевшего: быть! —
Хлеба достанет его накормить!
«Whoever kisses time’s ancient nodding head / will remember later, like a loving son, / how the old man lay down to sleep / in the drift of wheat outside the window. / He who has opened the eyes of the age, / two large sleepy apples with inflamed lids, / hears forever after the roar of ...»
«He who has kissed time on its tormented temple / With filial tenderness will subsequently / Recollect how time took to its bed in a snowbank / The color of wheat beyond the window. / He who had raised the century’s inflamed eyelids — / Two giant apples swollen with sleep — / Will c...»
«Here’s a young girl, barely in bloom, / Who still does not lower her eyes, nor blush, / As I approach she gazes at me / With her dark impenetrable glance. / And if I had my way, I’d spend my whole life in Settignano, / Beside the wind-weathered stone of Septimus Severus. / I’d look...»
«That girl there, little more than a child, / Neither blushes, nor yet casts down her eyes, / But, as she draws nearer, / Observes me with a dark, inscrutable stare. / Had I the fancy for it, / I’d spend the rest of my days in Settignano; / I’d sit by the wind-torn stone of Septimus S...»